


Moonlight Between Us

by strawberrykait



Series: Smithereens [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crime Fighting, Drama, Explicit Language, F/M, Infidelity, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrykait/pseuds/strawberrykait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A string of gruesome homicides forces Hit Wizard Draco Malfoy and Auror Hermione Granger to pair up once more to determine who, or what, is behind these Full Moon Murders. Sequel to Smithereens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: DH, EWE; sequel to **Smithereens**
> 
> Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
> Story Notes: I want to thank Floorcoaster for her undeniably valuable input and graciousness! I take responsibility for any/all mistakes. 
> 
> Beta(s): Floorcoaster

A dozen flash bulbs exploded before her eyes, harsh, white and unkind, but the mutilated body of Hannah Abbott didn’t seem to mind. 

There were nearly two dozen wizards and a few witches surrounding her, gazing down on her half naked body, taking samples, taking photos, while some didn’t seem to take any notice whatsoever, seemingly completely oblivious to the dead woman. He was here to solve her murder, not mourn it, but the thought refused to leave Draco Malfoy, that somebody out there would soon note the absence of Abbott. Someone like Longbottom, he supposed, or perhaps…well, somebody, anyway. This girl had family, loved ones, surely, and it was his job to bring justice for her death, to deliver resolution, and he was determined to do that for her, as well as the others.

Draco knelt down beside the body, studying the multiple gashes in her flesh, how the blood had congealed, estimating the time of death. He didn’t need the lab to tell him she was murdered like the others. But what he couldn’t tell, what the pit of his stomach told him the others wouldn’t know, is what the connection between them all was. 

“Clear out, Malfoy; this doesn’t concern you.”

Draco turned on his heel slowly, his temper beginning to rise with his body to face the newcomers. “And how do you suppose that, Weasley? This is my case.” He jutted his pointy chin defiantly towards the ginger git. “Abbott’s initial report suggests she fits the profile.”

“And that’s why we’re here now,” answered Harry Potter as he ducked under the crime scene barricade.

_Unbelievable._

The moment a case begins to develop, in saunters the Boy Who Lived to steal all his thunder. Draco sneered at the pair standing before him. He watched as they ignored him and began ordering around those present, including members of his department, all of which obeyed without objection. Draco was incensed. He wasn’t about to hand over his case without a bloody fight.

He marched up to Potter, standing toe to toe with the nuisance, forcing the shorter man to look up at him before he said, very quietly, “Not this time, Potter. I’ve clocked too many hours on this case to just let you -”

“The case has been given to the Aurors, Malfoy,” Potter interrupted him just as quietly, cutting his eyes towards those who were staring at the disturbance. Always wanting all the attention, Draco fumed. “The number of victims apparently murdered by person or persons unknown -”

“Actually, we’re nearly certain it’s _one_ being. If you had been working this case since the start, you’d know that much, so get your intel straight, if possi-”

“Has drawn too much public attention,” Potter spoke over him earnestly. Draco tried to regain control over the scene, but Potter was insistent. He continued, “Therefore, Proudfoot has transferred the case to the Aurors.”

Draco glared down at the dark haired man, glancing up unconsciously to where the famous scar hid beneath a layer of fringe. Potter stood his ground. “Instead of fighting over this, why don’t you catch us up, yeah?”

They stood there for a long moment, neither speaking, while Draco’s irritation grew stronger. “Shove it up your arse, Potter,” he seethed before storming out of the crime scene. Behind him he could hear murmuring and he felt the blood rush up his neck, infuriated to be so belittled before other MLE employees, and others. 

Always it’s Potter and Weasely, tossing him aside and snatching away his hard-earned glory. The bastards weren’t going to take this away from him, though, he’d see to that.

***

The very next morning, Draco stood in the office of Charles Proudfoot, arguing his case unsuccessfully. Proudfoot explained to him that the three vicious deaths in two months drew too much attention to not have Robards and the Aurors involved.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy. I understand how much this case means to you.” Draco snorted but said nothing, allowing the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to continue. “You have not been taken off the case, but rather you are to work with them to solve this.”

Proudfoot braced himself against his desk, looking up at Draco as he stood before him, his arms crossed behind his back, fists clenching convulsively. It would not do to lose his temper before his supervisor, the man who could single handedly determine Draco’s promotion into the coveted Auror program. Just earlier that year, Malfoy had been instrumental in bringing down Williamson, the former head of the department. At the time, he assumed killing his boss would hamper his advancement, but Granger convinced him otherwise. Now a few months later, nothing had changed, from his perspective.

Nothing Draco Malfoy ever did made a damn bit of difference. 

It didn’t matter how many dark wizards he captured, how much damage to either the Wizarding or Muggle world – both, in some dire situations – he circumvented, nor how many benefits for the reconstruction he not only attended but generously contributed to, nothing in his life had made any positive measurable impact on his day to day existence. He was still a vile Death Eater in the eyes of the public, and a glorified prisoner. To the Wizarding world, he was no better than the criminals he saved them from day in and day out. 

He stormed out of Proudfoot’s office, gritting his teeth and cursing Potter and Weasley and all the fucking Aurors. 

Nothing would ever change.

Down the corridor, towards the Hit Wizards’ office, he marched. Those he passed on the way gave him a wide berth, wishing to avoid confrontation with the most ill-tempered wizard at the Ministry of Magic. Draco hardly noticed them, his mind preoccupied. He would have to send all his files, his case notes, everything to those bastards. That is, if they hadn’t helped themselves to the lot already. He wouldn’t put it past them.

The Hit Wizards’ department consisted of one main room with a labyrinth of individual cubicles for each enforcer. Draco’s was near the far corner, a coveted area for any suspicious wizard, and practically separate from the others. During the Second Wizarding War, as it had come to be known, the number of Aurors and Hit Wizards alike dramatically decreased, yet the MLE surged with new recruits, mostly Aurors. That was where the glory was, everybody said, being an Auror, bringing down dark wizards and assuring world peace.

Utter bullshit, if you asked Draco Malfoy. The only difference between a Hit Wizard and an Auror was the pompous attitude, the fan base, and of course the criminal background check. For too many years now, Draco had been denied advancement because of his association with the Death Eaters when he was a bleeding teenager. He’d served his time, he’d taken his lumps, so why the hell wouldn’t they promote him to where he belonged? It made him absolutely insane whenever he thought about it. Weasley, of all people, was a fucking Auror, but not Draco? Weasley couldn’t find his arsehole with his wand.

And the recruits of late were piss poor excuses for wizards. Honestly, they were scraping the barrel when it was completely unnecessary. Draco could name a few from his department worthy of the title of Auror, himself first of all, but still nothing.

Draco stomped into his cubicle and began rummaging through his folders, searching for all the research he’d accomplished on the case he being forced to hand over. His workspace was filled to bursting with Sneakoscopes, Foe-Glasses, probes and other devices, some he’d engineered himself, as well as notes. Full sized sheets of parchment as well as tiny little scraps were stuck on the three walls, surrounding Draco with hunches and suppositions, names and such – the things he used day-to-day solving crimes deemed unextraordinary for Aurors to bother with.

Except for this case, it would seem.

He laughed harshly. No, nothing would ever change.

***

The cubicles within the Auror’s office were naturally larger than his, yet somehow too small for more than one wizard or witch to properly work on a case, which is why two incident rooms were transfigured on the far side. Meant to provide a private, extensive area for going over evidence and suspects, the rooms acted as base of operations for special assignments. Priority was given to the higher profile cases, primarily Death Eater hunts, but occasionally a lesser dark wizard or witch hunt could book time in one of the two. The rooms were flushed but not connecting, and had one extended window facing out into the department. Often the blinds were shut, for case confidentiality. Even within their own department, Aurors were seldom trusting.

Draco had never actually been inside one of the incident rooms, he groused as he charged through the aisle, determined to drop off the case box on Potter’s desk and be done with the disastrous mess. Only when he finally found the git’s cubicle, it was empty. 

_Bugger!_

Where the hell was Potter now? He wasn’t about to waste any more time waiting on the Boy Who Vanishes On A Whim. He glanced around Potter’s work area, noting how messy everything was. There were crisp packages wadded up on the table top and the floor beneath, a couple cans of soda, opened, and set carelessly close to case files, and multiple news sheets strewn about. 

Draco glanced down at one of the apparently Muggle papers Potter had been reading. It was quite odd to see the photographs completely dormant like that; unnatural and disturbing. The headlines didn’t move, either. Draco read a couple of them, the largest one concerning the death of Leach, the first victim, the Muggle. Where the article ended on this page, referring to the continuation on page 14, he saw a smaller headline proclaiming a lunar eclipse in May. 

His head had barely leaned back out of the cubicle when he saw her coming his way. 

Hermione Granger was more efficient than most Aurors – than most witches, to be perfectly honest – and would suffice. 

“Oh, good, you’re here. Right then, follow me,” she said, hardly stopping long enough to see what he carried. She led him back up the corridor into the second incident room. Of course they would have it booked already. The moment Draco set the box down Granger was upon it, carefully removing the manila files and bags of what little evidence was discovered at the scenes. All of it amounted to very little, considering how much time had been put into it, unfortunately. 

“So where are the dashing heroes of Gryffindor, then?”

“Ron and Harry don’t come in this early,” she replied without ceasing or looking at him. Draco crossed his arms, tucking either hand up under his arms and shifting his hip out to hold his weight while he watched her. Messy, as usual, he thought, taking in her wild, thick bushy hair and her polyester-blend robes. Couldn’t she afford a proper set? Oh, that’s right; she’s married to the Weasel. Or marrying, perhaps. He wasn’t certain if they’d eloped or not. Either way, she obviously could care less about her appearance. 

Draco nonchalantly looked for a wedding ring on her finger, but it was currently buried within the box. He looked up to her face to see her frowning in concentration. 

“Are you two shacked up yet, Granger?”

“No,” she answered quietly. “Harry and I are just good friends.”

It took him a moment to realize she was laughing at him. He offered her a smirk for effort and she smiled back. Draco wasn’t quite sure where to stand with Granger anymore. Ever since they worked together on the Carrows case, she seemed friendlier, more accepting somehow. It was off-putting, to say the least. Why couldn’t they go back to hating each other, he often wondered. Why must the lines be muddied?

“When do you expect them in?”

“That’s all right, Malfoy. You don’t have to wait,” she answered as she summoned a chair out to sit down, still concentrating on the last folder. She was examining the evidence without her bumbling idiots, and Draco felt compelled to join her for a moment, then decided against it. Granger discarded the photo clipped to this file, a garish, bloody photo of a young blonde girl. What Draco could recall of Hannah Abbott from school wouldn’t fill an ink pot, but he considered that best for the case. 

Without another word, he let himself out of the incident room, leaving Granger to her thoughts and his notes.


	2. Chapter 2

A few hours later, a memo flew into Draco’s cubicle, alerting him that the _team_ was assembling to go over the case files. He rolled his eyes and prepared himself for an afternoon of ridiculous questions and non-answers from the bloody Aurors. 

He was surprised to find nearly a dozen wizards and witches crammed into the incident room when he arrived shortly thereafter. Robards was present, he noted, as well as the Golden Trio, and even old Sturgis Podmore from his department. Why the old man was present, he couldn’t begin to guess. 

Draco shuffled his way towards a seat in the back, anxious to be as far from Potter and Weasley, and even Robards, as possible. After settling down into one of the folding, deliberately uncomfortable chairs and adjusting his robes, he made eye contact with Granger, who was seated near the front. She held his gaze for several seconds before everyone turned his or her attention to Potter.

Potter gave them a rundown on the case. Behind him on the wall were photos, maps, and a white board. A dry marker was enchanted to jot down the particulars as he went over them. The locations of the murder victims appeared within pulsing red circles on the map of central London, three in all. The Muggle police had been involved in each case, unfortunately, and they had a suspect in custody. Potter explained that Muggle authorities quite likely had the perpetrator, that all evidence lead to this conclusion, but it was their duty to be certain beyond a doubt. 

Draco rolled his eyes at the obviousness of this. When had the department gone downhill? Oh, that’s right: when they just let in anybody with the proper credentials. Very few of his notes were included in this meeting, he noticed but wasn’t surprised. What did surprise him, however, was how quickly the Aurors were willing to consider this murder case closed. Three people were dead, one wizard, one witch, and even one Muggle woman, and yet they honestly thought the Muggles had apprehended the guy, just like that? 

Draco tuned Potter out as he studied the board instead. Three circles pulsed in London. The first victim, the Muggle woman, Alice Leach, age 39, was found in Paddington, not far from Hyde Park, with her throat cut out on 4 April. The Hit Wizards’ involvement was quite late coming, since it was at first considered a strictly Muggle murder/mugging crime, but then small traces of magic had been discovered by a covert MLE agent working on the non-magical side of the law. The Muggles had closed Leach’s case with barely more than a cursory investigation, however when the body of Ewan Campbell, wizard, age 29 was discovered near South Bank, water logged but obviously clawed, both the wizards and the Muggles noticed the similarities.

The autopsy reports determined the instrument of death for both victims were claws. Specialists were called in to assess what type of animal could have not only caused the death of both victims but also not have been seen by any witnesses in the urbanized areas. The results were unsatisfactory, to say the least. Forensics could neither prove or disprove animal involvement, which was very odd considering the size of the claw marks, but, as they included in their report, and Draco had spent innumerable hours puzzled by, any animal large enough to attack a human would have also used its teeth. There were no bite marks found on either victim.

That was, until Hannah Abbott’s body was found approximately one month later. She was found near Bethnal Green, mutilated almost beyond recognition, with claw marks and bite marks of various sizes and depths. So much time had passed between the second and third victim that the case had been once again put aside, but this third victim reopened it. 

With a vengeance, Draco thought as he looked around the incident room. 

Most of those present were riveted to Potter’s analysis, except for Sturgis Podmore, who was currently watching Draco. A little startled, Draco blinked at the old man before glaring back. Podmore had been a Hit Wizard longer than many in the room had been alive, and he’d been a member of the Order of the Phoenix, so for that alone Draco resented him. He was a curious old codger, though. He’d spent nearly as much time as Draco had in Azkaban, spaced over many years, and he’d suffered an injury to his left leg, causing him to limp a little. His walk was identifiable in a crowd, and it reminded Draco of Mad Eye Moody most times, which was yet another reason for Draco to dislike the man. 

Podmore harrumphed and Draco broke away.

Back at the front, Potter had opened the floor for questions, and Granger was practically jumping out of her seat. Draco shook his head at the scene and rolled his eyes. Nothing ever changes. A debate ensued between Granger and another Auror, and Draco only half listened. The dry erase marker stood at attention, eager to jot down any tidbit that Potter confirmed, even once or twice scratching out previously dictated details when corrected by Granger. Eventually the Aurors came to the same point Draco and his team of Hit Wizards had: too many loose ends and not enough evidence. 

Potter assigned different pairs in the room to investigate the leads, all of which Draco himself had either already completed or had begun prior to the Aurors’ interference. He shook his head at the incompetence of the department as well as their complete lack of faith in his abilities. There was no chance that any of the pairs assigned to redo what had already been submitted in the case reports would turn up anything new, and if Potter didn’t know that, then he was truly a moron. 

Weasley was quickly paired with Potter, naturally, and soon after half a dozen pairs were made. Draco noted that each Hit Wizard was paired with an Auror, likely to prevent any two Hit Wizards from showing up a bloody Auror. He hadn’t heard whom he’d been saddled with and so he checked the board.

Unbelievable.

***

As luck would have it, or perhaps Potter was really a shite friend, Draco was paired up with none other than Hermione Granger. Again. Quickly following their dismissal, Granger marched up to him, gave him a once over and said, “Right then. Come with me.”

His only choices were to follow her or say to hell with the case, with his job, with any hope of advancement. _What choice?_

She led them down to the Ministry cafeteria. Together they waded through the queue, selecting items from the racks. As they passed the beverage section, Draco grabbed an extra straw. Slowly, he inserted it into Granger’s hair from behind, utterly delighted when she failed to notice. All that bushy hair of hers was the perfect playground during tedious meetings when the Aurors deemed Hit Wizards _worthy_ of attending. Sometimes she would catch him in the act of sliding quills, twigs and the like. The funniest was when she reached up and found a sleeping bowtruckle. That was hilarious, watching the struggle between the two insane creatures.

Elated by his success, Draco graciously paid for both of them. Her small thank you was unexpected and seemed to make Granger a little uncomfortable. What, did she think he couldn’t afford it? It was only a few knuts, not a thousand galleon dinner, for Salazar’s sake! Things had continued to be awkward between them whenever, despite the success of their last shared endeavor.

Draco continued to let her lead them about, and thankfully, she chose a table furthest from company. She surreptitiously glanced about before casting a nonverbal spell. Draco shook his head. Whatever she had done apparently had consoled her paranoia, so he did not question it. The entire time, save the second or two she thanked him, Granger was prattling away about her thoughts on how they should proceed. Potter had assigned them a rather insignificant lead, in Draco’s opinion, one that wasn’t likely to keep them busy for very long before being revealed as utter codswollop. It was so beneath him that Draco could hardly be bothered to listen to the swot. Instead, he ate his sandwich.

At least, he did until Granger conjured up photos of the first victim between their trays. Suddenly, his appetite was gone.

“After you dropped off the case files this morning,” she began, arranging her drink, salad and utensils to allow plenty of room for the photos. “I read through everything you’ve already done and I had an idea.” Granger voraciously dug into her salad as though she’d been starved for days on end. How the hell could she eat with those ghastly images staring up at her? 

“Leach was found in Paddington, her throat cut out,” she said, sotto voce at the last, casting looks about the cafeteria. Draco gave a noncommittal noise for her to continue. “And the second victim was clawed prior to being found water logged and neither were anywhere near the other. And then,” she stabbed her salad, grinning victoriously at him. “The third was found near South Bank!” She paused, looking expectantly up at him, dressing dripping off the end of her fork. “Well? Don’t you see?”

Draco blinked. Surely, she wasn’t expecting praise for stating the obvious. Yet he couldn’t see what else she could be alluding to, so he shook his head at last. Granger huffed, settling her fork back down before leaning slightly forward and staring into his eyes. Instinctively, Draco mirrored her pose.

“It’s the Thames.”

He waited a beat before asking, “The Thames is the killer?”

Granger growled, actually growled at him. She did a funny little dance with her chair, scooting it around to the side next to him and produced a scrolled map of London from her bag. Draco was distracted by the beaded bag’s size when compared to the map she now held, but quickly returned his attention to what she was showing him. The second two bodies were found not too far from where the river zigzagged through greater London, all right. But that didn’t explain the first.

Granger was quick to explain that as well. “For the first victim, our suspect was careless, inexperienced. He, or she, left the body at the scene of the crime, close to the park. But then he realized that he would be discovered and chose to dump the bodies in the river! That’s why number two was water-logged.”

“But Abbott wasn’t, Granger. Your logic doesn’t pan out,” he said.

“Campbell wasn’t killed in South Bend,” she retorted, selecting his photo from the pile as though it were evidence enough.

“That’s true, but we haven’t a clue where exactly he was killed. Your theory doesn’t hold water, if you’ll forgive the pun.”

She glared harshly at him, gathering the remaining photos into her hands, studying them harder. “There’s no better way for the murderer to transport the bodies to their scenes than the river…”

“Unless he’s a wizard,” Draco argued back. “Moving a body is hardly a chore, Granger. He could easily have killed them all in Hyde Park and simply dumped them as he saw fit, using a variety of methods: broom, Floo,” he laughed, “Disapparation, for Merlin’s sake!

“You Aurors have it wrong. It’s not a blasted Muggle killing these people, but one of our own. Possibly an unregistered Animagus gone mad. Or a Registered one, for that matter.” Upon her considering look, he continued with his notion, one that he had not had the time to include with the case file before handing it over. “Reports determined all three victims were killed by something similar to animal claws, possibly a big cat or even a wolf, yeah? And only the third had bites, meaning the suspect didn’t kill to eat. At first.” 

It was his turn to lower his voice. “What if the Animagus has lost his mind and truly believes his natural state is the animal? He would attempt to feed, would he not?”

The crease in Granger’s brow told him she was considering this theory. He remained hunched over towards her, watching her puzzle it out, waiting for her to ask about the various bite marks. Fortunately, he didn’t need to explain it to her. The suspect, in his insanity, had tried eating Abbott in both his forms . As disturbing as the idea was, it fit well enough. Granger completely forgot her salad as she rummaged through her bag once more, retrieving a book entirely too large to have been within. 

“Following the war, the Improper Use of Magic Office updated their registered list of Animagus from seven to twelve,” she muttered, scanning the page. Her frown deepened, and he assumed she did not find what she’d been looking for, but asked, to be certain. She shook her head. “None of the listed forms fit the description for what type of animal could have inflicted those wounds.”

“Which means he’s _unregistered_.”

“Or it could be another false lead,” she insisted. 

“It’s our job to know for sure, Granger.” He waited, watching the wheels spin in her bushy head. He knew what she was going to suggest next, and sure enough, she proved him right.

“Perhaps we ought to consult with Harry…”

“Granger,” he said loudly. He paused for a moment, collecting himself before continuing in a lower voice. “Going to Potter now would not only delay us, but he would likely shuffle us off this lead – a lead no one else has yet discovered, I might add – and we’ll be stuck on another dead end. Believe me,” he added with resentment. “I should know. We should proceed on our own.” 

After a moment, she slapped both hands down on the table and said, “Right then. I know where to begin.”


	3. Chapter 3

After divvying up the research, Draco and Granger went their separate ways: he, back to his cubicle, and then to Malfoy Manor to explore his family library; she said she would reexamine the autopsy reports. Frankly, Draco thought his assignment had more validity and was happy to see her march off. They had agreed to meet up the following morning at his cubicle, so as to draw less attention from Potter and the Aurors, at Draco’s insistence. All he needed was Potter or Weasley jumping in the middle and either tossing water on the entire theory or stealing the glory out from under him. In Draco’s mind, every case solved was another chance at proving his worth, and he’d be damned if they stopped him.

Deep in the Malfoy library, he found several passages that only confirmed what he already knew about Animagi from school. There were a few much older volumes that included references to dark wizards who used their powers to dominate weaker wizards and witches, even Muggles in some instances, with the intention of perpetuating the dark talent. Since Animagi were today still incredibly uncommon, Draco could understand how back when this account was written wizards and witches would consider the talent to be _dark_. However, unbeknownst to those fools, each Animagus was unique in his transformation and skill; it was not hereditary, per se. And despite multiple attempts at creating a throng of vicious, uniform animals , as recorded in one particular book he’d found, they always failed. 

Draco shook his head at the ridiculous insistence of wizards who tried to force nature; it was never successful. Animagi often could not control their animal counterpart – how could anyone, even centuries ago, possibly expect to dictate the transformation? It was absurd, and yet surprising, how many attempts had been made to do such a thing. Draco shook his head in disbelief.

Skimming through one book Draco came across a history concerning a werewolf invasion, several centuries ago, in what was now Scotland. The author had no firsthand knowledge of the events, but was merely recording the oral history and folklore. According to the historian, a ferocious pack of werewolves had overtaken several villages in Scotland, infecting and killing as they went, spreading like dusk across the land. They were led by an unnamed werewolf, who was described as nearly double the size of the others in his pack who had the most insatiable appetite for women and children. Draco paused when he read that the legend said this pack was predominantly female. 

Thinking about werewolves always brought to mind his experiences with Fenrir Greyback, experiences Draco would much rather forget. Short of Obliviating himself, however, he had few means of doing so. He snapped the book shut and returned it to the shelf, shuddering as he recalled Greyback’s laughter.

_Hopefully Granger’s had better luck._

***

“So I spoke with Stephens, the Pathologist working with the Metro Police,” Granger said by way of greeting as she plopped down onto Draco’s cubicle desk. His area was so crammed full of equipment that he was at first surprised that she hadn’t broken anything important with her arse, and second, that she’d found any space at all. Her position was not ideal, her crossed legs practically at eye level. Subconsciously, Draco noted that she wore no hosiery. He casually looked away from her knee and focused on listening to what she had found out the night before. 

“And he showed me what he’d discovered on the first and third victims,” she finished triumphantly. Her crossed legs were too distracting, which was definitely not good. When he asked her to repeat herself, Granger huffed and rose from her perch. That was _definitely_ good. “ _Hyoscyamus niger_? Almost untraceable amounts were found on both Leach and Abbott.”

Draco’s blank stare must have been sufficient impetus for Granger to delve into the mundane details of horticulture, details Draco found best left to bumbling fools like Longbottom. Granger explained that Hyoscyamus niger, also known as Henbane, was a plant of the family Solanaceae, a variation of Nightshade that was not indigenous to England.

“Are you telling me that our victims were killed outside of the bloody country?”

“No, not at all,” she replied coolly. “What I’m trying to tell you is that from what I’ve researched on this plant, Henbane does not originate here, but rather in other areas of Europe, and because of that, its presence is incredibly rare.”

“How then did our victims encounter it?”

Granger smiled wickedly. “From the murderer, of course.” Before his irritation could be voiced, she finished, “And he or she must have been at the Chelsea Physic Garden, the sole facility in all of England that cultivates Hyoscyamus Niger.”

The Society of Apothecaries, a well-known Wizarding association for potions and herbology, founded Chelsea Physic Garden, around 1673 near the bank of the Thames, making it a perfect location for growing a wide variety of rare and unusual flora that otherwise would not be sustained in such an urban area, or so they claimed. Open to the public, Chelsea Physic Garden was one of the loveliest spots in London for connecting with nature and relaxing, for all ages, for both Muggles and Wizards alike. 

It was also an ideal place for a murder.

Campbell was the only waterlogged victim discovered, and as such, he was the only one missing faint traces of Henbane. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a helluva lot more than anything he had discovered so far.

Despite the magical history of the garden, it also had a vast Muggle history, which dominated the public areas as well as some of the labs. To avoid any accidental cross-pollination, wizards and witches were admitted only by select invitation and then only allowed in very specific, well-hidden areas with extreme anti-Muggle wards. However, triple homicide was warrant enough for Draco and Granger to be escorted through the main doors, through the extensive and quite breathtaking plant life, and straight into the office of the Chelsea Physic Garden director.

Dr. Hector Jameson, Director, stood from his behind his desk when they entered, offering a smile of poorly disguised impatience along with his hand. His manner was nervous, Draco would later comment to Granger, but that most likely could be attributed to their presence and position, not to mention the reason for their impromptu visit. The Garden had a highly regarded reputation that would be severely tarnished should Draco and Granger discover something untoward on the premises. Which is exactly what Draco was hoping for and therefore he refused to return the smile.

“Dr. Jameson,” Granger began after accepting the offered seat across from the director, “Thank you for admitting us so quickly. My partner and I have a few questions concerning a rare plant which this facility houses, Hyoscyamus niger.”

Draco remained standing, taking in the office. It was rather small, the walls lined with framed lithographs of unidentifiable plants as well as certificates belonging to Jameson. As Granger began questioning him, Draco slowly paced, listening more to Jameson’s responses than her questions. The director visibly relaxed as he reiterated what Granger already shared about the plant in question, elaborating on the Garden’s unique capabilities that raised them far above other facilities in the country. 

Granger smiled encouragingly and Jameson began a recitation of the plants’ magical properties. “Hyoscyamus niger, or Henbane if you will, is a truly wondrous plant. Mostly used as an anesthetic, and at one time was used in transfiguring potions, similar to Polyjuice,” he said, pausing for a breath. “However, it is also a rather powerful hallucinogenic when ingested, so potioneers no longer rely on Henbane for common concoctions. It can be … rather dangerous.”

“To what extent, Dr. Jameson?”

He sat back in his chair, brow furrowed in concentration as he fingered the scruff on his chin. “Well, some studies show that Henbane, in a pure state, mimics opium in its anesthetic components. The patient experiences severe hallucinations.”

Draco glanced at Granger when she did not interrupt the director for telling her something she already knew. Her patience was improving, he noted to himself. There was a time when she would have been harried and jumping far ahead of her instructor, eager to impress everyone with her big brain. Perhaps her time in the MLE had helped her develop not only interrogation skills, but manners as well.

“And who here is responsible for its maintenance?”

“It is a unique plant , indeed, so we keep it in the fourth greenhouse. A select group of botanists and toxicologists, and myself, of course, have been studying the Hyoscyamus niger for many years now. Quite fascinating,” he mused. 

“Exactly how many members are there on your team, Dr. Jameson?” Draco asked. 

After a brief moment, he answered that there were ten wizards and witches involved. A small team for something as extraordinary as Jameson carried on about, but it was a rather large number of individuals with direct contact with the mysterious plant found on the victim. When Granger asked Jameson how secure the fourth greenhouse was, Draco was far from surprised to hear that it was practically accessible by every employee of the Garden , and even Muggles. In the span of a half an hour inquiry , their suspect list shrunk to ten and then immediately grew somewhere in the vicinity of the incalculable. 

This was a dead end. 

“Just how many of your people sample your wares, Doctor?” Draco baited.

Jameson blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Draco repeated his question, despite the daggers Granger was shooting him. The look on Jameson’s face changed from inquiry to shock and finally to incredulity, all in less than a minute. 

“Well, I have never,” Jameson bristled as he stood from his desk, eyeing Draco with contempt . Meanwhile, Granger quickly stepped between the two men, profusely thanking Jameson for his time and insisting that they could see their way out. They had not made it far beyond the office when two burly wizards, different from their escort before, ushered them out of the Garden without a single word.

“That was completely uncalled for!”

“We’re wasting precious time, Granger. Jameson didn’t know anything of use.”

“You don’t know -”

“Too many people have access to the plant; it’s a waste of our time. We’d do better ourselves to check out greenhouse number four -”

“Which we can’t now, can we, no thanks to you! Jameson won’t let us near.” 

Draco considered the notion of disguising themselves, but brushed it aside. There was nothing here that would quickly solve this case. He knew they would do better to consult their notes and move on. Granger was thinking aloud, as usual, and suggested returning with a warrant to inspect the fourth greenhouse. It took the entire walk out of Chelsea Physic Garden to convince her to his decision to try another tack.

***

When they returned to the Ministry not fifteen minutes later, Draco was more than happy to see the back of Granger. Neither had spoken the short distance between Chelsea Physic Garden and the nearest Apparition point. Granger was no angrier than he was; it wasn’t possible for her to be. Not only had his case been taken from him, but also he had been saddled with an idealistic schoolgirl with her head up her own arse. 

_Bloody waste of time … herbology._

He was certain the key laid in the teeth marks. It had to be an Animagus. With the intention of checking the Ministry records of incidents involving Animagi over the last few years, Draco marched into his department and practically ran over Podmore. The older wizard glared harshly down at him, his jaw clenched and teeth bare, reminding Draco of a crazed werewolf. 

“You’re going about it wrong, Malfoy,” the older man wheezed, his breath carrying heavy traces of whisky. “Bait an’ trap, boy! Or you’ll never catch ‘im.”

Draco glared up at the old wizard, who was considered by many to be deranged and ought to have retired decades ago. Podmore hung about the MLE, butting his warty nose into whatever cases he saw fit, but in his three years since joining the MLE, Draco could not recall the old nuisance actually solving a single case. If he had had his way, Podmore would have gone out with the rubbish years back, but his superiors were sentimental dunderheads. Just because he was older, supposedly experienced, and a formerly glorified member of the now defunct Order of the Phoenix did not qualify him for a high-ranking position in Draco’s opinion. Still, all Draco could manage was a sneer before Podmore hobbled away.

He absolutely hated it when Podmore was on to something.


	4. Chapter 4

There had to be a connection. The victims could not have been randomly chosen, but whatever the connection, it continued to elude Draco and the MLE. One Muggle, one half-blood, one wizard … two women, one man … all under forty. He stared up at the map of London, watching the red pulsing circles that indicated where they had each been found. Paddington, South Bank, Bethnal Green. 

Potter’s enchanted marker had indicated suspected patterns on the map. His eyes kept running back to King’s Cross., It had to be King’s Cross. A plan quickly fell into place.

***

“Malfoy, something’s occurred to me …. What are you doing?”

He ignored Granger, gathering his things, until she stepped between him and a foe glass. Draco looked up at her, catching the querulous eyes of so many wizards in the glass behind her, all of them recognizable and not too far away, it seemed. A slight movement from her returned his attention to the short woman before him. She was apparently angry. Of course, she ought to be; he was abandoning his partner. It was time to close this case, and Draco knew exactly how to do it.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

Knowing that her questions would become even more annoying if he continued to ignore her, he answered, “King’s Cross,” and continued working around her. For a moment, he thought he had gotten off easy. Silencing Granger was a practically unheard of thing, and he mentally congratulated himself.

“I’m coming with you.”

Jinxed it.

With a weighted sigh, he sat down in his chair and watched her with irritation for a few moments, determining just how much to tell her. She was his partner, whether he liked it or not, but she had proven herself trustworthy. At last, he came to a decision. “Potter sussed out the next location, yeah? So tonight’s when I’ll find him there.”

“What makes you so certain it’ll be tonight? Abbott was just found, and there were months between her and Campbell.”

“That’s it exactly. She was _just found_ , on a full moon night,” he whispered, leaning toward her in his seat. Granger also moved closer, eager to hear his theory. “Look at the dates of the victims, Granger. It’s the moon, it’s affecting the perp. Either he’s an Animagus or a real werewolf, but the moon is definitely influencing his attacks. He’ll be there, tonight, and so will I.”

“I’m coming, too.”

“No, you’re not.” He dismissed her with a flat laugh.

“You can’t stop me,” she indignantly replied. “We’re paired together for a reason, and if you’ve discovered something, I ought to be involved.” She continued to watch him gather up a few items, some of which he set aside after a moment’s consideration, all the while ignoring her. While there was some slight enjoyment in pissing off Granger, that wasn’t the object of this exercise. However, it did make him want to smile a bit, if only to himself. 

Granger shifted and huffed. “In case you’ve forgotten, Malfoy, I am the Auror in this partnership and therefore have seniority over -”

“It would be best,” he began, finally acknowledging her, his brow furrowed, , “if you did _not_ finish that sentence.” The longer she glared back up at him, the angrier he became and knew he had to leave immediately or else waste this opportunity. Granger followed him a short ways out of his area but not so far as the main office door. Unfortunately, her grating voiced carried in his brain much further than her steps.

***

King’s Cross station was practically buzzing with energy, much to Draco’s chagrin. Disregarding the man Potter said had been apprehended by the Muggle Police, they had no clues to the identity of the actual murderer. Draco’s plan did not hinge on knowing any of the physical attributes of perpetrator. Instead, he had considered the very basic common factors of the three victims : they were each under forty, Caucasian, presumably healthy prior to their deaths, and living in predominantly Muggle London. Their proximity to each other implied that their murderer was also in the area, living among them, so to speak. King’s Cross would complete the circumference of the killing area, Draco supposed, as well as offer up the largest cross-section of victims from which to choose.

What niggled at the back of Draco’s mind, however, was the first victim, Leach, a Muggle. Of course, it was possible that the perpetrator had killed her in error, and that he had not realized Leach wasn’t a witch, but that was too great an assumption. Still, something within Draco latched on to the notion and would not let go. He considered all of this and hoped that his backwards plan, to lure him in with ideal bait, would succeed in capturing the murderer.

Here was his bait.

As Draco leaned against the corner of the British Library, he watched Hermione Granger as she seemingly appeared out of nowhere. She was incredibly predictable, so much so that while he followed her not-so-stealthy entrance into King’s Cross station, playing perfectly into his plan, he considered how remarkable it was that she had ever been made an Auror. Honestly, she was a shit officer. Granger would be better suited behind a desk somewhere, or perhaps buried in the stacks of some obscure library, rather than here on the streets of London. 

Still, she was serving a purpose tonight, although completely unaware.

Granger’s head swung about as though it were loose on her neck. He wouldn’t be surprised at all to watch her cast a locating charm here in the middle of all these blasted Muggles, the way she was carrying on. Good. He wanted her to make a spectacle of herself, to draw the attention of those around her. Her frantic, conspicuous behavior would surely appeal to one in particular. Draco continued to trail her at a distance. No matter how terrible an Auror Granger was, he didn’t believe she would truly be in any danger.

He kept a distance of ten odd metres back, always keeping Granger in his periphery, while assessing those rushing through the station, especially those with service animals. Although Draco firmly believed the culprit was an Animagus, he wasn’t completely certain if he was taking a _canis_ or _puma_ form. Granted, the latter would be rather remarkable in such a setting as London, let alone King’s Cross, but assumptions only led to trouble, in his experience. 

A group of tourists, American, judging by their clothing, stood between him and where he had last seen his partner. With as little production as possible, Draco made his way forward, cutting through those milling about, jabbering about trolleys versus carts or some such nonsense, seeking out Granger.

She wasn’t there.

With more force than necessary, Draco shoved through the crowds. There were no thoughts rushing through his mind, then. No worries about not catching the person who had taken the bait, simply determination and excitement to have this case finally culminate into a capture. This would surely be it for Draco, the case that would demonstrate his worth to Proudfoot, especially if he rescued Granger in the process.

Round the corner, leading out of the main terminal, heading down to platform five, Draco charged, caring less about Muggle perception the further he went without coming across Granger and the culprit. King’s Cross was a no-Apparition zone, so they couldn’t have simply disappeared. Nevertheless, there were too many people, offering too much cover. What if they hadn’t taken this terminal but the one before? He couldn’t have passed them, he was certain of that. Could he? As doubt tried to creep in around the edges of Draco’s determination, his pace increased into a full-out run. A dead partner certainly wouldn’t do his profile any favours. _If Granger gets herself murdered, I’ll kill her._

There were fewer people on this platform, unsurprisingly, but that ought to have made discovery much easier. There were no signs whatsoever, none. Draco closed his eyes and listened.

Keening, faint and high.

Draco dashed left, down a maintenance corridor left ajar and found Granger in a body hold, a man not much larger than himself pressing her head far over. If he didn’t know better, if he had stumbled upon them, ignorant as any Muggle, he would have believed them to be a snogging couple. Well, perhaps Granger was struggling a bit much for that notion. Her eyes screwed shut, her body tense, fingers digging into the arm that held her against her attacker, yet her mouth was slack. Her resistance was slipping.

“ _Stupefy!_ ”

The pair toppled over with a loud crash. Draco frowned. It worried him somewhat that the man was so easily taken by surprise. How in Salazar’s name did he get the drop on Granger? He made quick work of binding the man on the floor. The spell was beginning to wear off and he was ranting and spitting ferociously. The ropes sprung out from Draco’s wand, tying the maniac tightly, with only his head and feet remaining unbound, snarling. Draco stared down at him for a few seconds, unable to discern exactly what he was screaming, and cast Silencio to shut him up before he brought the damn Muggles. 

With a quick second glance at the prone body of Granger a few feet away from the crazy man, Draco shot off his Patronus, alerting the Aurors. They wanted this man so terribly, they ought to have the privilege of toting the maniac in. Meanwhile, he would see to his partner.

Draco squatted down next to her, running his wand briefly over her head and body. There were bruises beginning to bloom, nothing that could not be healed away easily enough, but there also seemed to be teeth marks on her neck. The man had broken the skin and Granger was a bit bloodied. This was excellent. Such a mark would definitively prove Draco had found the correct man, so he flicked his wand over the bite, creating a scan for evidence. When finished, he muttered, “Ennervate.” 

Granger gasped like a drowning woman, sputtering on the ground, clutching her throat. Hmm, perhaps he should have revived her first. Oh well; next time, then.

***

Draco watched from close by, close enough to know when the Healer had finished patching Granger up, and decided to approach. Granger remained seated, her hand absently touching the bandage on her neck, dazed. He sighed. It could have been worse, much worse than a few bites and scratches, he wanted to say. However, she was still in shock, it would seem. Soon enough, she would lay into him, so Draco chose to save his explanations for then. All around them, the cramped maintenance corridor was buzzing. The Aurors wasted no time apprehending the man and were now long gone, but some remained behind, finishing up business, questioning those Muggles who perhaps had seen anything and Obliviating when necessary. But for Draco and Granger, their work was done for now.

He looked about before saying, “So where’s your beloved, then?”

It took her a moment before she replied, “Borneo.”

Draco blinked. “Come again?”

Her answer came out stunted, as though she really had to concentrate, which was not surprising at all, considering her recent trauma. Weasley and Potter were on assignment in Borneo. They had had a lead on the Carrows and had left just this afternoon.

Draco’s face twisted with resentment. He and Granger deserved that assignment. The Carrows were theirs by right, not _Weaslebee’s and Potty’s_. He clenched his jaw, turning to her, prepared to harangue her for giving up the Carrows to her fiancé and the Boy Hero, but stopped. This was not the time, nor the place. Granger was not in full form to retaliate, and really, what purpose would it serve if she could not properly fight back? On a great sigh, Draco tried to release his anger. “Come on then, Granger. I’m buying.”


	5. Chapter 5

He wasn’t sure which surprised him more: that Granger came so easily, so willingly to his flat, or that she didn’t object to the double firewhisky. Either way, she had no business being alone after the attack, and the drink would do her nerves some good, much better than any potion. Naturally, she protested, but he merely stared her down until finally she accepted the glass. For a second or two, he almost laughed at the face she made as the alcohol burned its way down her apparently too delicate throat, her eyes squeezed shut so tightly he thought he spied tears leaking out the corners. Instead, he smirked and relished his own burn. By the time Draco had poured himself a second, Granger began talking.

“It doesn’t add up, Malfoy.”

“Course it does, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then explain to me his motive,” she challenged. He glared back at her before deliberately sweeping his eyes away from her in dismissal. Unfortunately, that move rarely worked where Granger was concerned. “It’s too easy to say he’s simply mad -”

“Easy? Do you call tonight easy?”

“On your part, yes,” she bluntly answered without looking at him. He stared back at her, watching as she picked at the bandage on her neck. “It’s pointless to reprimand you for what you did, Malfoy; I know you _that_ well.”

Thank Merlin for small favours, then.

“But he barely subdued me…was more intent on … biting me,” she whispered, her brow furrowed in confusion as she paced about his living area. “Why?”

“If you recall,” Draco drawled, “the others were also bitten. The man was obviously mad. The Aurors have him now. They’ll begin the preliminaries and we’ll know more in the morning, when we go in for follow up.” He opened his mouth to mention his Animagi suspicion again, but chose better of it. Clearly, this was not the time to bring it up, what with Granger acting so strangely. A childish part of him rolled his eyes at such maturity. Besides, there were now more important matters to discuss. “Why didn’t you tell me they were going after the Carrows?”

Granger made a questioning noise in response, her pacing coming to a halt as she inspected her choice of seats. Perhaps this was not the ideal time to breech this topic either, but it was difficult to resist. With a jerk, he swallowed down his second whisky and made to pour a third. With a second glance, he took her glass and refilled hers as well. 

Why she was playing him off, he could only guess. It took tremendous effort not to get angry with her, even though he firmly believed she was to blame. How could she let them take the Carrows, for fuck’s sake? Were they not partners? Had they not spent an excruciating weekend together in order to hunt the former Death Eaters down? Did he not save her annoying life in the process? Twice now, in fact. Just how stupid was Granger? 

The longer he stayed quiet, the angrier he grew at the woman sitting on his sofa. For Granger, his ideal job was nothing more than an amusing hobby, it seemed. Having finally decided what to say, Draco spun about to face her and stopped. Granger’s drink was abandoned on the coffee table before her, her head collapsed into her hands. He could hear her panting breaths between her fingers and suddenly his anger was forgotten.

“I think I’m done, Malfoy,” she said at last.

“You haven’t even finished it yet.”

“No, not the drink; with the MLE. I am thinking of quitting. Have been for some time, now. This isn’t,” she burped as she picked up her drink, staring down into the glass rather than meeting his eyes without excusing herself. “This isn’t what I wanted, after all.”

He glared at her, his own glass held between his forefinger and thumb, swirling the amber liquid within. Granger was honestly a bore. Seemed every time the girl had a tiny sip of Ogden’s, she started blathering on about how she’d every intention of changing the world, making a difference, living up to her glorified status as Potty’s number one bint. 

Granger continued to whinge, despite Draco’s efforts to block her out. “I want to be married, have children. I want to see a _difference_ in this world!” Draco rolled his eyes, gulping the rest down. As his glass emptied, her voice droned on and on concerning all her wasted time in the Department and how nights like tonight only reaffirmed her desire to move on.

One little attack and she were ready to toss in the towel. Whatever happened to that supposed Gryffindor bravery? Hadn’t she fought countless Death Eaters? It was bloody typical of her, to flaunt before him what he so desperately wanted as if it were nothing more than a nuisance, something she could cavalierly walk away from on a whim. What made her think he’d give a damn, anyway? They were not friends. Why the hell was she laying all this shite on him? What madness had convinced him to bring her _here_ tonight? Draco decided he must have been going daft from excessive Gryffindor exposure.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her as she rose, gingerly touching both her head and then neck, resuming her pace. He refused to respond to her self-pity. _Oh, poor, poor little princess. Things are much harder than expected; must be time to call it quits._ Draco stared down into his empty glass for a tick, and then immediately refilled his tumbler. Granger was a shite partner, anyhow. Having her gone would be a blessing, actually. In fact, her timing could not have been better. With this case under his belt – all his doing, in fact – he was sure to prove his ability to Robards and Proudfoot. She was practically creating his inevitable promotion. When he looked at it that way, Draco thought he ought to _thank_ Granger.

Draco shuddered and motioned towards her untouched drink. “Drink up, Granger.” When she did not respond after a moment, Draco scoffed, picked up her glass and turned away. With both drinks in his hands, he wasn’t free to pour himself another drink, so he tossed back Granger’s whisky and grunted, setting the glass aside. Granger really was a stick in the mud. To hell with her, he thought as he reached for the Ogden’s.

The touch of her hands on his hips startled him and he sloshed whisky down his front. 

“Fuck!” 

Immediately he reached for a towel to blot up the alcohol, but Granger’s roaming hands soon earned his full attention. She squeezed his hips on either side before traveling up his torso on the right, down on the left. Draco froze. What was she playing?

Her hands squeezed him again as she reached up on her toes to sniff, and then lick behind his ear. The hairs on Draco’s neck stood at attention. They weren’t the only thing beginning to stand. Dropping the towel, Draco stepped away from his partner, turning to eye her with suspicion. Granger didn’t look any different, except perhaps a bit…feral. She watched him from beneath her lowered lids, her hands hanging at her sides. Her eyes were not reddened or glassy from too much drink, as he expected. Rather, she seemed quite aware. She did not advance when he moved further away. Instead, her head tilted slightly to the left in small jerks, as though catching his scent in the air. 

He made a mental note to pour out the rest of that Ogden’s and never to let Granger have another drop of liquor in his presence. 

“Perha-” Draco’s voice came out too rough and he tried again. “Perhaps you ought to head home now, Granger.”

Instead, she stepped towards him. Mesmerized by her slow approach, Draco stared directly into her brown eyes, which never wavered from his. When her hands cupped his face, Draco inhaled sharply at the cool touch against his heated cheeks. Granger once again sniffed at him, drawing closer, pressing her body against his. The blood pounded into Draco’s ears, preventing him from moving, from even thinking, leaving him to only feel the woman currently murmuring inaudible noises into his neck. The flick of her tongue along the cords urged Draco finally into action. He gripped her shoulders firmly, an instantly released her, worrying about her just healed broken arm. Granger fisted his shirt and yanked him down to kiss her.

Instantly Granger reacted, opening her mouth to him and clutching once again at his hips, grinding herself against him. What was before simply sensitive was now aching for more attention. He moaned into her mouth, his hands quickly moving up into her maddening hair and tangling. Through her teeth, she hissed at the pain, tugging herself free. He wouldn’t completely let her go, however. If she did not want to play, she should not have started this game, again.

Somehow, she escaped his grappling arms and circled him. Draco turned about to watch her remove her blouse, her movements jerky and rough. He held his breath in anticipation. She wasn’t beautiful like a model, or even as beautiful as his fiancée, Astoria, but she was genuinely pretty, and rather sexy like this. Soon Granger’s breasts were visible, although still covered by a plain white brassier, the rounded tops peeking out slightly. The breath he had held came out in a whoosh and when he moved to touch her, she dodged him. His eyes jumped to catch hers, but she wasn’t waiting for him there. Instead, she seemed to be staring at _his_ chest. 

Draco chuckled. _All right, Granger. Turnabout is fair play, I suppose_. 

With every intention of giving her a show, Draco unbuttoned his shirt slowly, continuing to follow her as she circled him in his living room. Her hair was mussed, her breasts rising rhythmically up and down, much slower than he would have imagined, though. He knew what game she was playing, just not why exactly she chose now to play.

When his shirt was opened, he stood still, expecting her to come to him again, but she didn’t. After an uncomfortable beat, Draco swallowed, second guessing himself. He stepped towards her and she evaded once, and then once more, and he held still, waiting. Fine. He would let her play her way, if that was what she wanted. He was already half convinced that they were both simply drunk and this was all a misunderstanding when Granger lunged at last.

Although she was rather short, Granger was hardly a lightweight. She tackled him onto the floor with barely a grunt, Draco’s head bouncing off the carpeted floor. He moaned with pain and tried to blink his vision clear. She was straddling his thighs and pressing both hands into his chest, keeping him down and attentive. Draco leaned up to kiss her and she dodged him again. He breathed harshly out through his nose, waiting impatiently. His hands found their way onto her knees, squeezing and rubbing her, wishing to Merlin she were in a skirt. Her hair billowed around her face, obscuring most of it as well as his own when she leaned down towards him. Draco let her. She sniffed at him once more and Draco was quite baffled by her behavior. Just what kind of kink were she and the Weasel into?

Much like cold water, that thought put a damper on his mood. He tensed beneath her as she continued to nuzzle against his neck, alternately licking and sucking the skin into her mouth. “Granger,” he began, his hands now pushing against her bent knees. “Get off, Granger, the fun’s over.”

Her hands clenched his ribs, digging beneath his nipples painfully. It was then that he realized something was quite wrong. Bucking beneath her did no good as she only raised herself on her knees. When her tongue wound its way into his ear, he seriously considered abandoning his conscience for the night, but only for an exquisite moment.

Perhaps he was rougher than was necessary, but Draco forced his way up from the floor as Granger continued to prowl after him on her hands and knees, slinking in a most delicious manner. He began shouting at her all sorts of things, mostly profanities, to snap her out of whatever stupor she was in, but still she advanced, once more on two feet. No matter what he yelled, how he offended her, or her wardrobe, or her heritage, Granger was unresponsive. Draco knew what he had to do.

Draco reached for his wand at the same instant Granger pounced. Together they fell onto his sofa, a tangled up mess of limbs and half-removed clothing, all while her mouth did naughty things to his bare chest. He moaned, “ _Finite Incantatum_ ,” but nothing changed except Granger switched to his other nipple. He frowned, confused and very frustrated, and tried something else.

Despite Granger’s best efforts, Draco had just enough presence of mind to resist her, eventually, and to blast her off him. She flew across the room and banged into the far wall. There was a horrible cracking noise that could only be the sound of bones breaking. Draco cringed. He raised himself up on his elbows, waiting. When she didn’t crawl back toward him, Draco peered over the arm of the sofa, his wand outstretched and ready.

Much like a girl too deep in her cups, Granger looked passed out on the floor. With the tip of his right foot, he nudged her, and then stomped beside her head, testing for any reaction. When there was none, Draco levitated her. The movement caused her pain, and straight away, she was cognizant once more. He studied her wide brown eyes, searching for any traces of either inebriation or enchantment, and found her lucid at last. Most definitely in pain. Granger’s arm looked quite broken.

After a stunted, brief conversation, Granger abruptly left through his Floo for St. Mungo’s, muttering under her breath something about madness. Draco didn’t consider offering to accompany her until she vanished in green flames. He was already on his knees before the fireplace, Astoria’s too beautiful face groggily answering his call, when it occurred to him that this wasn’t the witch he wanted to shag into the wall at the moment. Astoria smiled sweetly up at him. 

“Come through, Astoria,” he whispered huskily.


	6. Chapter 6

The following week at the MLE was somehow exciting yet equally quiet. Returning to the Ministry following the King’s Cross capture of John Doe, age undetermined, Draco noticed a change in the air. He had had lunch with Robards and Proudfoot, during which both men praised his ingenuity and made less-than-veiled comments about an upcoming advancement. 

Doe had been processed and sent to Azkaban for the three murders, and that was as far as Draco was concerned on the matter. Draco wasn’t directly involved with the interrogation, which was handled by the Aurors. As per regulation, the memory of the interrogation had been stored away and the case was officially closed in a matter of days. End of story.

Everything had worked out as expected. Except Granger had yet to return. 

A broken arm was no reason for her to be indisposed for so long, but the awkwardness of their last encounter kept Draco from inquiring about her. No one was around to offer an update, either, with both Potter and Weasley still on assignment. It pissed him off that they were on the Carrows case, but he reasoned that as soon as his promotion went through, he would finagle his way in. He felt certain his recent success would cinch it all up nicely and soon.. Then he’d prove to those wankers that he was a much better Auror than Potter or Weasley and take down Amycus and Alecto once and for all.

Draco tossed his missing persons case aside and spun his chair around. It was little more than busy work until his transfer was complete; Proudfoot would hand it over, no matter the progress, to a lowly Hit Wizard once he was out of this suffocating cubicle, so Draco wasn’t about to invest any of his highly valuable time on it. Besides, he had other things on his mind.

More often than he liked, he thought about Granger and the things she had said at his flat. And the things she did. Even a vigorous round or two with Astoria hadn’t been enough to wipe away the memory of Granger’s hands, her tongue in his ear, or her scent. Where the devil was she, anyway? He cursed himself for lowering his guard where she was concerned. 

Perhaps he ought to stop by her department; he needed to scope out his new work area, in any case. Asking about her would do no harm, would it? Besides, doing so would look good to his supervisors, that he was concerned about his partner and colleagues. No one would suggest he was interested in her inappropriately.

Having made up his mind, Draco marched down to Auror Headquarters, a frown set on his face to deter any interference. Rounding the corner to her station, he was truly surprised to find it still empty, save for all the get well cards and trinkets awaiting her return. A quick glance through the well-wishes showed that nothing had arrived from Potty or Weaslebee, surprisingly enough. Renewed resentment coursed through his veins as he returned to his own station, ignoring the somewhat friendly greeting from his associates.

***

“Why haven’t you looked at the John Doe memories?”

Draco sputtered his tea back into the cup, startled by the sudden appearance of one Hermione Granger in the doorway of his cubicle. He had been utterly preoccupied, staring sightlessly down at his missing persons file. “Merlin’s beard! Where the hell have you been?”

Granger sighed. “I’m back, now. Answer the question.”

He stared up at her for a few seconds longer than she apparently liked for she huffed before stepping into the small space and leaned against the desk, choosing to wait no longer. “We have the wrong man.”

“And what makes you think that?” He glared up at her, his surprise at her sudden appearance giving way to anger and resentment. How long had she been back to work before bothering to let him know? “He confessed to the murders -”

“Did you review the memories?”

He deliberately waited a beat before replying, just to prove a point, before saying, “Not personally, no. Such duties belong to the Aurors, not us lowly Hit Wizards. John Doe confessed to the murders -”

“His name,” Granger spoke over him, “Is Daniel Sinclair, and he’s obviously mental.”

Draco laughed and she cuffed the back of his head when he made to take another sip. His look of death didn’t appear to frighten her, though. He’d have to work on that. 

“Have you any idea why I was at St. Mungo’s for nearly _three weeks_ , Malfoy?”

It had been the longest three weeks Draco could recall. As much as he hated to admit it even to himself, he had noticed her absence. It was definitely quieter with her gone, and there was nobody to muck up his work area with her pert little arse, that was certain. 

Granger leaned down to speak quietly to him. Instantly, he leaned forward as well, catching her scent on the air: soap and some kind of flower, he thought. Granger didn’t really seem the type to douse herself in perfume. Distractedly, he wondered what she wore. 

“When Daniel Sinclair bit me, I was infected. It quickly worked its way into my bloodstream and caused me to behave … erratically.”

 _Erotically, more like._ His eyes widened at the shadowy expanse within her blouse, behind her small diamond engagement ring, which hung around her neck. “What’s Weaselbee’s ring doing there?”

“What?” Granger clutched at her ring and sat back. Damn it, he lost his view. She shook her head and answered absently, “I have residual allergic reactions to metals on my skin, so I had to take it off. However, that's beside the point. Malfoy, Sinclair gave me a mild case of lycanthropy.”

Draco’s eyes widened in horror and he attempted to jump back from the infected witch, but failed tremendously in such small quarters. “Then why the fuck are you here, talking to me?”

“No, you imbecile,” she yanked on his robes, forcing him back into his chair. He swatted at her hand and then rubbed his enthusiastically on his pant leg to rid himself of her disease. “Lycanthropy, Malfoy, is not what you think! At least, not _quite_ what you think. We have to view those memories. I’m certain we’ve got the wrong man.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! All evidence to the contrary.”

“Just give me the benefit of the doubt, Draco! He’s already locked away. If I’m wrong, then he’ll stay put.” Granger stared him down for a beat, and then quietly added, “But… what if the wrong man’s been sent to Azkaban for crimes he didn’t commit?”

***

He absolutely hated to admit when he was wrong about anything, but it was exponentially worse when he had to do so to Granger. She managed to retrieve the John Doe/Daniel Sinclair memories and they retreated into the Pensieve together where they witnessed his interrogation. The man was quite twitchy and irritated – nothing unexpected from a man in such a situation. However, it was what he said that brought chills to Draco’s bones. Sinclair sat across from the two Aurors talking more to himself than answering their questions. He was amazed by their patience with the obviously disturbed man. 

His whispers were so low that Granger stood practically on top of the accused in order to hear whatever madness he was uttering. She beckoned him closer, so Draco chose to stand opposite her, in case she was contagious. At least the memory version of a supposed werewolf wasn’t dangerous. Sinclair was muttering incoherently. Draco bent lower toward the man.

“Safe now … the moon won’t … find …”

“Why did you kill them?” 

“Wasn’t good enough. Wouldn’t be pleased. Better, better this way, away from the woods. Wouldn’t have made it.” Sinclair hid his nervous giggle behind his hands. The Aurors repeated the question repeatedly, until Sinclair finally snapped out of his reverie and stared back, as though the three of them were having a normal conversation. “They had to die for my mistake. I was helping them. Without me, they wouldn’t have survived.”

Draco glanced up at Granger, expecting an explanation. Her brow was just as furrowed as his own was. 

The Aurors questioned what that meant, but Sinclair was no longer cognizant. Their demands eventually led to the man crying and rocking in his chair. Their questions were relentless and Sinclair’s reaction was quite unnerving. He began apologizing to the victims, to the Aurors, and in between, he laughed and studied the interrogation room, glancing quickly up at the pair across from him. 

“At least ‘m not a woman.”

***

St. Mungo’s was Draco’s second least favourite place to visit, but here he was, at Granger’s insistence. He was still perplexed by the notion that she had been infected with lycanthropy, yet adamantly denied she was a werewolf. Ultimately, knowing that St. Mungo’s had a ward for the mentally ill readily available should she go completely round the twist was sufficient for him to agree. The entire walk up to the second floor, where Healers dealt with magical illnesses, she was silent, marching ahead of him with determination. Neither her irritation nor their current location bode well for his safety or sanity. He kept at least two steps behind her, his left hand occasionally touching his wand for reassurance.

When at last Granger stopped, they were before a set of double doors, above which read, The Remus Lupin Ward. She turned to him, the beginnings of a smug smile on her face. After another silent moment, her smugness was slowly replaced by confusion, followed by irritation. Clearly, she expected everything to fall into place.

“Alright, Granger, let’s pretend – as difficult as this will be for both of us – that I’m Weaslebee.” Her glare could have caught his robes on fire. “Give it to me slowly. What’s the point?”

With a growl, she cut her eyes towards the doors, waiting impatiently. “See, that’s in poor taste, Granger.” Draco walked toward her warily, sliding past his partner and through the door. She followed behind him, and then quickly took the lead again.

“When I left your flat a three weeks ago,” she began, completely omitting the details of her _sickness_ \- a sickness Draco had yet to completely erase from his memory. Or from his fantasies of late, for that matter. A slight heat rushed to his face in recollection and he chose to ignore it and force himself to listen to Granger’s lecture. “I admitted myself here. I was suffering from delusions, you see, and … hungers … unlike anything I’d ever before experienced. The Healers here diagnosed me with lycanthropy.”

“And now, come every full moon, you’ll transform into a hideous, hairy beast. Lucky for you, that can’t be very different from your day to day life.”

“Shut it, Malfoy. You’re wrong. There is more than one type of lycanthropy. Type One is what is commonly understood to be a transformative disease, altering the infected into a werewolf during the full moon. The infected must regulate his transformation by daily ingesting the Wolfsbane potion, which hinders the lycan genes and prohibits transformation.” Draco rolled his eyes. Granger really ought to consider a career change, possibly as an assistant to Professor Binn. “Of course, physical restraints are also highly recommended.”

Suddenly an image of Granger in shredded robes, chained to a damp dungeon wall sprang to mind and faltered his step. She eyed him funnily before continuing.

“The second type, however, is quite bizarre. The infected does not suffer from a physical, but rather a mental, transformation. He believes himself, or in some cases, one or more people, to be werewolves. This mental disorder cannot be treated by Wolfsbane, but by a combination of potions. Analysis has shown the mixture is somewhat successful in readjusting the individual back to reality.”

“Wait, are you telling me you thought _I_ was a werewolf, and that’s why you tried to have your wicked, wolfish way with me, Granger?”

“I did no such thing!” A deep blush bloomed across her cheeks. Several freckles practically popped off her pert little nose in a charming manner, causing him to smile. Almost. The momentary distraction was long enough for her to regain her composure, and then she continued down the corridor. 

_No worries. She’ll admit it, later if not sooner._

Just ahead, his partner stopped in front of one unremarkable door and waited again for him. “Take a look, Malfoy.”

He carefully eyed her before peering through the small window. Within the padded cell paced a man of indeterminate age, flicking his ear now and then, muttering. His eyes were wide and bouncing anxiously across the small room. Most peculiarly, something in this man’s behavior reminded him of Sinclair in the pensieve. Quick to catch on, he said, “So you and Sinclair, and whoever this is, all have Type 2.”

“Not exactly,” she hedged. Draco turned to her, noting her furrowed brow. “Sinclair’s disease is more complicated than mine was,” she quietly said. “Because he’s an Animagus.”


	7. Chapter 7

Down the dimly lit corridor Draco crept, water dripping endlessly off him. A sense of trepidation swelled within his chest with every step. Draco was rather familiar with Azkaban. Entirely too familiar, which was why Granger had agreed to his mad plan. 

Immediately following her revelation about Sinclair, the pair had tracked down a Healer within the Lupin Ward for questioning. The Healer, whose name Draco had readily forgotten, had refused and actually had the audacity to maintain that such information was confidential and unavailable. 

What followed was a scene none of them was likely to ever forget, because Granger’s chest had puffed up twice its normal size just before she laid into the poor wizard, arguing that as a patient herself, as well as a highly decorated Auror, he was essentially obligated to reveal whatever was supposedly sealed within the records.

Instead, the Healer had chosen poorly, regaling them both with a superior air non-specific stories about persecution of lycanthropes and werewolves and the social prejudice they face in the world today and throughout history. 

Draco’s smirk had been completely irrepressible as Granger set the man sputtering with her exact details of persecuted individuals, both historic and personal acquaintances. In fact, she reminded Draco that he was distantly related to a half-breed, Teddy Lupin. He’d absently wondered if his estranged Aunt Andromeda could be of assistance, but had quickly disregarded the option. Obviously, Granger was well versed on both types of lycanthropy; no need to get into such an uncomfortable situation unless it became absolutely necessary. 

Unsurprisingly, the Healer had reluctantly admitted to a recent influx in Type 2 patients over the last few months (coinciding with the three murders, Draco noted) but he would not release any further details. With only a hint of condescension, Granger thanked the Healer, and she and Draco returned to headquarters, bickering along the way over the next phase.

***

Failing to procure the necessary answers at St. Mungo's, and faced with even more questions, Draco had concocted a plan of action. Granger had been less than cooperative, at first, considering his idea would place them both in jeopardy as well as highly illegal, but eventually she’d come around and secured a portkey for herself to Azkaban. He had taken to his broom.

While she remained in the warden’s office discussing the Sinclair case that had been concluded during her absence - an update she was prepared to dispute, should he claim her victimhood discredited her - he was going directly to the source. 

Utilizing a spell of his own creation, Draco managed to bypass the alarm so that he could sneak in from the roof. Unfortunately, this spell was mentally taxing and he had previously only managed to maintain it for less than half an hour. The spell was only capable of temporarily disarming the first-level alarm system, so if he turned a corner and ran into trouble … well, he wasn’t going to consider that possibility. 

If Granger and those studies she bored him nearly to death with were correct, then Sinclair wasn’t the murderer, but some poor bastard. And Draco helped put him here. 

He involuntarily shook himself, deciding it was the cold and nothing more that chilled him. Draco’s mind replayed his last argument with Granger.

_“So what’s the problem, then?” Draco sighed, his frustration rising steadily._

_Before agreeing to send Draco off to Azkaban, they’d secluded themselves within the empty incident room back in the Aurors offices. By that time, it was after hours, and hardly anyone remained at the Ministry, except for cleaning witches and other workaholics, like Granger. Even so, this case, this damned case that had been neatly wrapped up not a day before, persisted in tormenting Draco. Granger was no better, with her loose ends._

_The walls of the incident room had been stripped bare, of course, but Granger had retrieved her notes from the case. Draco had leaned back in his chair, turning it from side to side slowly as Granger paced the length of the room, biting her lower lip._

_Granger sighed. “The problem,” she reiterated more with her raised eyebrows than with the tone of her voice, which was quite controlled, “is that these people_ think _they’re werewolves.”_

_“But they’re not.”_

_“No.”_

_“They’re just mental?” Draco folded his arms. In his head he counted the seconds until she would sigh once more, completely exasperated with him. He barely made it to three._

_“Some of them are, maybe, but it doesn’t account for the recent attacks. Either these Muggles are suffering from delusional misidentification, or…”_

_“Or we’ve got a real werewolf insurgence,” he finished._

_“Exactly.”_

Merlin, he wished Granger was wrong on this.

Nothing had changed at Azkaban and he doubted anything ever would. The three years of his life this place had stolen from him remained the stuff of nightmares even four years later, but he had compartmentalized his own personal issues for the mission. The biggest obstacle was discovering where Sinclair had been stashed away in this dark, labyrinthine hell. Down impossibly black corridors he crept, Dillusioned, his heart beating double-time against his ribs. 

When the supposedly good guys took over the prison, many people expected drastic changes to take place. The only one that had actually been approved was the removal of the Dementors. Draco thanked Merlin that’d he’d been so fortunate as to not have to exist under their cruel gazes, but more so for his parents. 

At the end of his trial, Lucius was already a broken man. The year he’d previously spent in here with the damned soul suckers had altered him permanently. When he’d returned home just before the Second Wizarding War officially began, Draco noted the extreme differences between the father stolen from him and the one who had taken his place. Lucius was desperate and unhinged, filled with trepidation and fidgety, even around his wife. Draco did not recognize his father then. If Lucius had had to return for a ten-year stint with the Dementors in place, Draco was certain his father would have killed himself before Azkaban would.

He sensed that he was being watched. A shuffling sound came from behind, and Draco froze, waiting. Coldness crept inside his chest at the painful recollections and continued on, his pace increasing. Granger would only have so much time with the warden, and he had to find Sinclair and whatever answers the mad man had. He fingered the coin in his pocket as he hurried along, less worried now about being heard and more concerned about his window disappearing.

Two corridors running in opposite directions presented themselves and Draco paused to consider. Suddenly someone grabbed his wand arm and tugged him back toward one of the cells. Draco struggled free and spun about, his concentration broken, causing the Disillusion charm to dissolve. He was pressed up against the icy cold metal bars of a cell, looking straight into familiar grey eyes. 

“My son,” Lucius hissed, his voice ragged and hushed. Lucius Malfoy was practically unrecognizable. He looked shrunken, as though he’d aged a hundred years in just seven. His once shimmery long blond hair was shaved so close his scalp was visible. A shaggy grey beard had overtaken his once strong jaw and now hung several inches long, reminiscent of a deranged Dumbledore. Draco stood aghast, looking at the man that had once been his father. “You’ve come for me, at last.”

The words were slow to process in his brain. “Wh- ” He choked and tried again, “No, Father, that’s …” He couldn’t finish the sentence as he watched what little light in his father’s eyes go out. He had to choose how to hurt his father: with the truth or with lies.

Lucius stared his son down, as he always did. At least Azkaban hadn’t taken that power from him. _Yet_. 

Lucius’ cold hand tugged on Draco’s sleeve, pulling him closer to the bars, his yellowed teeth barred and broken. “Free me, son! It is your duty.”

Draco stood aghast, trapped. His chest tightened. Rain water dripped into his eyes and he hastily wiped it away. “This is not the time, Father,” he whispered as he glanced down either side of the corridor anxiously while subtly pulling away. “This is … merely recon. Next time,” he lied.

Lucius’ face brightened marginally and his grasp considerably loosened. He seemed almost proud of his son, which made the lies so much harder. 

“How is your mother?”

“She’s quite well,” Draco answered automatically. “Lovely, actually, back in the Manor, continuing her life as though …”

“Oh, you are a terrible liar, boy,” he seethed, flinging his son away from him. He paced the confines of his cell, hidden within the dark recesses from Draco’s view, but could still be heard. “You are a disgrace to the Malfoy lineage. How _dare_ you _feebly_ placate me with such a poor performance? How long have I been locked away, rotting from the outside in, festering in my own filth like a damned squib, while you have walked freely about, doing _nothing_ to remove me from this wretched place? Tell me!”

“There’s nothing -” Draco tried, only to be stopped by his father’s disbelieving hiss.

“Silence! You were always a disappointment to me - to us both. A weakling … a sniveling disgrace. Your mother should have drowned you, or given you to Greyback - devour the Malfoy blemish. If it hadn’t been for her, we would have had more children. Better children.” Lucius rushed back to the cell bars and leered at his appalled son, who stood motionless against his father’s tirade. “You are the reason I am here!”

Draco swallowed, finding it difficult to respond. “You’re wrong, Father.”

“It was _you_ who failed to identify Potter. Had you done so, our family would have been rewarded, sanctified. The Dark Lord would -”

“Would have killed us, Father,” Draco said, unknown strength returning. “We were _damned_ lucky to even survive his wrath -”

“How _dare you_ talk back to me?” 

“You are the reason we are so disgraced, Father! You were given ample opportunities to denounce the Dark Lord and -”

“Oh, like you did, son? Yes, that was quite remarkable: watching as you failed again and again and again. It’s no wonder you associate now with blood traitors and Mudbloods. Oh yes, I know what you’ve been doing these last few years, for even in here bad news travels quickly. Perhaps their kind better suites your failures?”

The hand clutching his wand trembled, and it was difficult to keep from aiming at the man before him. He wanted so desperately to shut him up, to block out the horrible things his father was spitting at him, yet he couldn’t even walk away. 

“You are no son of mine.”

The coin in his pocket began to burn through to his skin, and without another word, Draco left his father’s ghost behind to continue rotting away in Azkaban.


	8. Chapter 8

He was still wringing the water from his drenched robes when Granger accosted him, demanding to know what he’d discovered from Sinclair. Ignoring her was the only way he could keep from squeezing her throat until her maddening voice ceased. He clutched his sopping robes and heaved away from her. 

“Oh.” She stopped short, her hand halfway to her mouth, eyes wide with surprise. “I didn’t think about – how could I _forget_ such a – I mean, I thought perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea, sending you into Azkaban, but you -”

Draco glared at her sharply, effectively silencing anymore half-arsed sensitivity bullshit she was about to try. One long look at her, and he realized she was actually sincere. That was uncalled for. “You didn’t _send_ me, Granger. I’m not your little errand boy.”

“No, but I didn’t think about -”

“Shut it,” he barked. With a deep sigh, he watched as her face creased with concern. He could practically watch as her thoughts quickly came and left, directing her expressions. However, all that self-consciousness and reflection melted away, replaced once more with determination. Granger, ever the bloody professional. 

She cleared her throat. “What did you find out from Sinclair, then?”

Granger persisted, all the way through the Ministry Atrium, down to the lifts, and followed him in. He knew she would never stop, so he finally barked, “Piss off, Granger! Azkaban was a waste of time. Sinclair murdered those poor bastards, he admitted as much. Full stop. There is nothing more to be done, so leave off!”

Granger stood with her mouth hanging open, absolutely shocked by his outburst. She was finally quiet, but Draco couldn’t enjoy it for the loud banging in his own head. As her jaw slowly closed, her eyebrows drew in as well and her chest puffed up with righteous indignation. He really couldn’t take it from her right then, possibly never again. It was people like Granger who had ruined his life, who went about flaunting their views as the end-all be-all for the entire Wizarding world, and the likes of Draco Malfoy had to step-to or were stepped on. Well, not anymore. 

Granger took a deep breath, and jabbed the emergency stop button on the lift and they both tumbled against each other in the abrupt halt. Automatically his hands clutched her closer to himself, his fingers digging into her arms, eliciting a hiss rather than her expected reprimand. After an instant, she freed herself with a jerk and stood back, glaring. 

“What are you not telling me, Draco?”

His limit was just about reached. Draco did his best to ignore her as she continued to step between him and the button to reset the lift. Over Granger’s shrilling came the automated monotone voice, informing them alternately that the lift was sitting somewhere between Levels four and five and that emergency personnel had been alerted. All the noise was enough to push Draco over the edge. He closed his eyes briefly, and then glared down at her. “You were wrong about Sinclair, all right? He had _nothing_ to add. We’re no closer to solving this damned case. You were wrong, Granger, get it?”

She shook her head at him. “That’s impossible,” she said, her chin jutting out slightly. 

_Please select a floor._

Draco huffed out an irritated laugh, retreating to the opposite corner and slipping in one of his puddles. However, Granger wouldn’t accept his defeat. “Before Azkaban, we both agreed that his behavior in the Pensieve was off – that _something_ wasn’t right. I knew I should have gone myself. Obviously, you couldn’t handle Sinclair-”

“Bullshit! You don’t know bollocks about interrogation-”

“Apparently neither do you, since you got _nothing_ from him!”

“I never saw him,” Draco bellowed over them, silencing only Granger. 

_Please select a floor._

“Are you satisfied?”

She stood gob smacked. He moved her astounded body away from the buttons and set the lift back into motion, thankfully shutting up that damned announcer. Her shock was short-lived and immediately she stopped them again, but this time he was prepared for the shudder. 

In a quiet voice she asked, “What happened?”

“I’m through,” he said, grabbing her elbows and maneuvering her out of the way. She struggled a bit, no more than he could handle. No wonder Sinclair got the drop on her. “The case is closed, there’s nothing more to do, Granger. Just let it go and move on.”

“It’s me, isn’t it? It’s because of …” she left the rest unspoken. Instead of calming down or possibly turning apologetic, however, Granger attacked him physically, first stomping on his instep before lunging at him. She used her fists to pummel his shoulders and head. “You stupid bastard! I thought you were beyond that, your racism and prejudice, but apparently, I was wrong! Oh, silly me, to think you’d finally matured enough to work with me -”

“You’re mad, aren’t you? Completely lost your mind -”

“This is just like last year, you hypocritical prat! You can’t work with a Muggleborn.”

“Oh, come on!”

“That’s it. You’ve deliberately sabotaged our case because you resent the hell out of me, why? Because of my parentage? Because I’m an Auror and you’re -”

“Don’t try to read me the fucking riot act, alright? Just shut up, Granger. Shut. Up. Not another word, I mean it!” Draco covered his face with both hands, furiously wiping at the dampness and hoping to rub the entire shitty situation away once and for all. He huffed and tried to shift her away without giving into his desire to knock her down.

“-because I’m a woman! Huh? You feel threatened by me, don’t you? Don’t you!” she shrieked. This was beyond ridiculous. He was seriously considering blasting open the lift doors, to climb either up or down to the closest floor or possibly just free-fall into the shaft just to escape her nagging.

“-just as bad as your fath-”

Without forethought , Draco rammed her smack against the far end, reveling as her head bounced off the wall from impact. Draco held her there, desperately trying to reign in his rage, his face contorting with the effort mere inches in front of hers. They were both panting, and he felt like growling, like squeezing her with his bare hands until she would just _stop_. She winced at the pressure he exuded on her upper arms. Her shocked silence was gratifying. 

_Please select a floor._

The desire to snap her neck had never been stronger, and only the barest thread of sanity kept Draco in check. Her chest was heaving up against his, her hot breath blowing directly into his face, but he didn’t care. He wanted her to stop - stop talking, stop nagging him to death, to just leave off. Stubborn bitch that she was, Granger would never, ever stop. 

_Please select a floor._

He squeezed her tighter, yet she made no sound at all. 

The second he let her go, she wasted no time stabbing the emergency stop button and dashing through the doors as soon as they cracked open

_Merlin, help me._

***

Draco slammed the folder shut. Despite the several hours that had passed since his row with Granger in the lift, he’d been unable to focus at all on the missing persons cases he’d been assigned. 

The things she said, what he did. 

He glared down at the folder. These cases were fodder for the mean time. In less than a week, he would be an Auror, and this garbage would be someone else’s conundrum. 

He had _important_ puzzles to suss out. Such as what had happened in the lift. Such as what was happening between him and Hermione Granger. It wasn’t just a matter of guilt - a feeling not entirely unfamiliar to him - but more of how in Merlin’s name he was ever going to recover from it. At the very least, she ought to report him for attacking her, at the Ministry, no less. He wasn’t sure if she would or not, though. If the roles had been reversed, he’d have gone straight to Proudfoot.

Then again, maybe not. They were supposed to be partners. They’d fought like wild beasts before and nothing ever came of it, but this was different. They were different now, weren’t they? Yes, he’d lost his temper. Because of his father. That was such a lousy excuse. He shouldn’t have done it, any of it. 

Draco absolutely hated it when Granger was right. She usually was.

He turned his chair toward the doorway of his cubicle. It was late, later than he’d realized. If Granger had reported him, he would have known long before now. Thoughts of Granger turned down a different path.

At first he’d thought she’d been about to bring up that night so many weeks ago in his flat, when she’d nearly devoured him in more than one way. Draco groaned, turning back to his desk to bury his head.

What was going to happen next week when he moved into the Auror department? More importantly, what was going to happen tomorrow morning when he saw Granger again?

Draco certainly wasn’t above fooling around with an engaged witch. The entire debacle was easily explained away to anyone who might be interested, not that he was outright willing to explain any of it - he himself barely understood what was going on. The fact that she was a Muggleborn as well as his partner, and in some sense, his _superior_ , was just more salt to the wound. Draco had had his fair share and then some of beautiful women and illicit affairs. He was only slightly concerned about how Astoria might perceive any of what had gone on. No, what bothered him most about the situation he was currently in was that he was genuinely attracted to Granger, and then he had assaulted her. His stomach began to twist.

However, Granger had crossed the line back in the lifts. He’d given her multiple warnings to back off, yet she persisted in harassing him. He felt only a smidgen of remorse at first, but the longer he had to consider what had happened, it grew stronger. 

All he had to do was find Sinclair, get to the bottom of things, and meet back with her in the Atrium. Simple as that. But it hadn’t been at all. It hadn’t escaped his attention that, should Sinclair be proven innocent, Draco’s promotion to Auror could very well be revoked. 

His right foot reared back and kicked the cabinets beneath his desk as hard as he could in such a confined space. His rage bubbled up every time he thought about it, the second time he’d been that close to achieving his dream, only to have it yanked away at the last. Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ ever changed!

A small, reluctant voice within him wished he could somehow ignore everything Granger had brought to his attention today. However, he would know the truth, and he knew he would forever feel as though he hadn’t really earned the position. _It doesn’t matter_ how _you get there, so long as you stay there._

Cold shame swept through him with that thought, combined with his father’s taunts and sneers, stabbing at his heart. No, he just could not do it. His sentence in Azkaban had been worth something, at least: Draco Malfoy had developed a moral code. Auror wouldn’t mean a toss if it was even slightly possible that Sinclair was innocent and Granger was right about all of this.   
Yes, Draco had mucked the mission up, but that hardly justified Granger’s interrogation, had it? Why the hell couldn’t she leave well enough alone? Why had she felt it necessary to needle and push and irritate him to the point that… that…

Draco sighed.

A small part of him tried to envision what would have happened if he had simply told her that he’d come across Lucius instead. Would she have still been so cross? Or would she have brushed it aside and insist they continue on without Sinclair’s direct input, as if Draco’s encounter were nothing of consequence? Would she have given him the space he had obviously needed first? As much as he resented his father and the decisions he had made that had directly ruined Draco’s life, he was _still_ his father. 

 

It was truly unfamiliar and frightening waters for him, to be bothered with himself for protecting his father and his own damned insecurities, and thereby jeopardizing the mission. Granger would never do such a thing. She would never let a man rot in prison when there was a slight, distinct possibility that he was, in fact, innocent. She would never allow personal issues endanger a mission, no matter how distressing and terrifying. She was a better Auror than he would ever be,   
Draco had to admit, and a better person, as well.   
Terrific.

Seeing that most of his cohorts had already left for the evening and the next shift of Hit Wizards had come into the department, Draco decided to head home. Tomorrow was another chance to set things right. All of it would keep for a few hours, at least. Although it was late, Granger could still be sitting at her desk, meddling with the case, trying to exonerate Sinclair. He stared down the corridor that would lead to her cubicle, debating. Eventually he turned away, heading for the lifts, before stopping once again. 

Draco sighed, running his hand through his hair. 

Honestly, he wasn’t prepared to have it out with her again so soon, so he continued home, thinking of what to say when he would finally have to apologize.

***

“Granger.” Draco’s voice crackled and hissed within the grate. He’d made it home and immediately kneeled before his Floo, the urge to talk to her, to apologize – hell, just to _see_ her - greater than his own sense of self-preservation. From what he could see of her flat, it was neat and tidy, and he felt certain that Weasley had not moved in with her yet. He ignored the small elation that went through his heart at that realization and called out for her again, much louder this time, but still there was no answer. 

Her fireplace was not in the most advantageous spot in the room; most of the room was blocked from his limited view. He cursed and sparks flew from his enflamed head onto the hearth. Ignoring common courtesy, Draco jumped through the Floo, sooty and sputtering. He coughed out her name. Draco moved through her flat cautiously, expecting to either hear her shrill voice or see her pop out from nowhere, wand aloft. He called out to her, and it took almost no time whatsoever to peek into her rooms and determined she was not there. 

He sighed, frustrated. For a moment, he debated returning to the Ministry, when his eyes fell upon an upturned chair through the doorway of her bedroom.

Quickly he tromped toward it, wand drawn, noticing at last the disarray, completely out of character based on what he had seen of her flat. Upon closer inspection, he noticed some soot marks on the walls, and there were burn marks still smoldering on a chest of drawers. Instantly he knew there had been a skirmish quite recently and could only assume that Granger had been taken by force.

Draco ran back out of the room and searched her work area. Knowing his partner as he did, he knew she would have left something behind, _some_ clue for him to discover. Granger was as meticulous at home as she was at work, unsurprisingly, and she had obviously been working during her leave of absence. Upon her desk were stacks of papers and files, each graffitied with her very neat handwriting in an assortment of coloured ink, yet undisturbed. Why would someone kidnap Granger yet leave all of this behind? Possibly her assailant wasn’t connected to the Sinclair case, but the likelihood was slim. Must have been a grab and run, and Granger gave a good struggle. _She’d already been on edge because of him._

He tossed aside the self-deprecating thoughts and focused on her notes instead. Draco dug quickly through them, scanning each page hastily. Wherever she had been taken, whoever had done this, Granger would show him the way. Her notes were not completely foreign to him, but she had done much more research than she had shared, obviously. As he read through the pages and pages, his uneasiness grew. He blanched as he read what she had discovered.

***

Bloody damned Gryffindors, rushing head-first into danger without the least bit of warning. If only she had confided in him… 

Draco couldn’t finish that thought even to himself. He’d scoffed at her speculations, and had given her every right to not trust him, hadn’t he? She had tried to tell him her theory before Sinclair was ever incarcerated, but he had shut her out, refusing to admit to anything beyond the surface. She had been right all along, and now she was gone.

Granger lived in Wizarding London, which wasn’t that far from Hyde Park - more or less Muggle-town as far as Wizards were concerned. The nearest Apparation point was a handful of kilometres down, not nearly close enough, he feared, as he full-out ran once he hit street level. It didn’t occur to him until then that he could have simply Apparated from her flat into the park. Draco grimaced.

Draco made it three hundred yards or so before he considered alerting the MLE. The Sinclair case was closed, finished. All the Aurors and Hit Wizards who’d been on the case were reassigned elsewhere now, including Granger’s two best friends, off gallivanting in Borneo. No matter how much he resented their assignment, it was definitely time to call them in. In a flash, Draco charged one Patronus to notify headquarters, uncertain who, if anyone, would answer the call, followed by a second Patronus, headed directly for St. Mungo’s. Glancing up at the street sign to get his bearings, he was caught by the bright moonlight shining down, bathing everything in brilliant splendor. How had he missed such a crucial detail? Granger hadn’t, after all. 

A total lunar eclipse was expected this evening; he’d read about it in the papers, but hadn’t made the connection. Sinclair was an Animagus infected with lycanthropy, a supposedly mad-man fearing the moon, raving in the Pensieve about the change. They had both been right, after all, except only half so. Sinclair was the key. The three victims had been attacked by a half-breed, infecting them as he had Granger, but ultimately they had died. Why? Were they inferior in some way, defective? Draco had ruled out the possibility that all of this was mere coincidence when he read Granger’s notes. According to what he’d read, the lunar eclipse could theoretically be strong enough to accentuate the lycanthropy, possibly enough to induce a real transformation. If she was right, then things were about to get hairy in Hyde Park.


	9. Chapter 9

The full moon shone brightly above him, white light pooling across the ground and throwing the trees in stark relief. His eyes continued to glance up at the moon whenever he could clearly see it, fearful of the impending total eclipse. _Any time now._ Draco had just looked away when he felt a surge of magic. He could feel the wards as they enveloped him, coating his skin like summer’s heat. Now there was no way to send for help, no turning back at all. Draco clutched at his wand until his knuckles turned white. The Silencing charm on his feet was working marvelously, and he thanked Merlin for the foresight for he was completely immersed in the woods of Hyde Park now.

Before entering the wards, Draco had expected it to be quite easy to locate where Granger had been taken, but he quickly recognized the magic that had been placed upon the park. It was old, even ancient, and reminded him of a tamer version of the Forbidden Forest back at school, the unbearable sense of dread and fear, but with thankfully fewer beasts and monsters lurking behind every tree. At least, he hoped fewer. Hyde Park was dense and shadowy, yet empty. Deceptively empty. According to Granger’s notes, herein lay a den of werewolves, preying upon Londoners, and building up an army for reasons Draco could easily imagine.

The strained relationship between wizards and werewolves went back centuries and would very likely continue as it always had, despite the best efforts of bleeding hearts like Longbottom and his one-time werewolf professor, Lupin. Moreover, depending on how things went down tonight, perhaps all-out war was just around the corner.

Hyde Park was eerily silent. No birds chirped in the trees. There was no scurrying along the ground, just out of sight. It was unnatural, and Draco felt assured that he was on the right path, his pulse quickening. He paused for a moment and noticed the beginnings of a shadow crossing the moon. Unlike a solar eclipse, the lunar eclipse did not completely block out the light from the moon; rather, it cast an orange hue across it, turning it into a copper moon. If Granger was right, this total lunar eclipse was capable of such lupine enhancement, that even the Lycanthrope patients at St. Mungo’s posed a serious threat to the Healers on staff tonight. He had tried to warn them; there was nothing more he could do now, however. 

Draco shuddered, wondering what exactly he was walking into. Every step increased his unease. In his albeit short life, Draco had witnessed innumerable horrors, not all solely by Lord Voldemort. Although the whims of a madman were inexplicably disturbing, what was worse for Draco had been the deeds of the seemingly sane, the ones he once trusted implicitly. Cold beads of sweat formed along his hairline and across the back of his neck as his mind flickered between the dreadfulness of the past and monstrosities which, he was certain, were lying in wait for him.

He edged around a broad Plane tree and stopped, hearing voices in the distance. What was said he couldn’t make out, nor could he recognize the louder voice except to say it was a man’s. Draco kept, maneuvering so that he was hidden behind trunks. Up ahead a warm light could be seen, like a bonfire. He switched his wand from his left hand to his right, wiping the sweat against his trousers before gripping it firmly, keeping it down at his side.

As he neared the firelight, the voices grew louder, until Draco was practically standing among the strange conglomeration he found within a small clearing. He was shocked to see mostly women sitting or standing dangerously close to the bonfire, looking tired and worn, their clothes tattered much like those he had seen on the homeless of London. A second of doubt entered his mind as he watched them milling about until he heard a gruff, familiar voice.

Looming over two cowering women was none other than Fenrir Greyback. Draco had half-expected to find him here, but was not actually prepared to face him once more. Years ago, when Voldemort had usurped his home and his life had been a seemingly endless nightmare, Greyback had been an almost permanent addition. Even then, he’d towered over Draco. Greyback would tap his long, yellowed nails down every wall, across every table, drawing horrified attention from Draco as the werewolf leered at him. He would imagine strings of human flesh hanging limp between Greyback’s jagged teeth whenever he smiled and never, under any circumstance, did Draco hold his gaze.

Now, staring across the distance at the horror of his childhood, Draco was frozen, unable to either look or walk away. The woman on the right shrunk back as the werewolf swung his arm around to hit her companion. That was when Draco noticed something he hadn’t before: both women were pregnant. Fury boiled within Draco and his feet propelled him forward without another thought. 

Draco had barely entered the clearing, had begun to silent cast, when he was knocked down on his knees, a sharp pain erupting in his kidneys. The next blow was just as sudden and unexpected; it felt like a Bludger smacking into his skull. He lay sprawled on the ground. The world narrowed in his vision for a moment, the edges lined with coarse fur as a pack of animals surrounded him, howling and growling, some digging into his back, shredding through his clothes, their jaws snapping before his face. 

Regaining awareness, Draco tried to throw the wolves off as he jumped back to his feet, blindly casting stunning spells left and right. One or two howls replied to his magic. The pack widened their circle around him, growling and snarling, their teeth glimmering in the bright moonlight. Suddenly, they parted and Fenrir Greyback sauntered down the newly made path towards him. 

He hesitated briefly before casting again.

“ _Expelliarmus_!”

Greyback easily deflected with a snarling laugh. “If it isn’t little Malfoy? Never thought I’d get a second chance at you, boy,” he growled, his yellow teeth gleaming with saliva. He stood close enough that Draco could smell the earth on his robes as he whispered, “Did you think we couldn’t smell you coming?”

Seconds too late, Draco launched his fist towards Greyback’s ugly snout. Unseen hands grabbed Draco from behind, locking around his chest and head, holding him steady. The struggle was futile and desperate. They were much stronger than Draco was, stronger than any average man, and Draco had little doubt that his captors could easily snap his neck, if Greyback so much as sniffed. His struggles ceased as he surreptitiously looked for Granger. _She has to be here …_

Greyback was pacing slowly in front of him, softly growling, his eyes continuously checking the progress of the eclipse. The shadow was half way across now; soon, whatever Greyback had in mind would begin, and if Draco didn’t break free, he was certain he wouldn’t see the end of the eclipse.

In the blink of an eye, Greyback reared back his fist and punched Draco in the jaw. His neck snapped back and popped wickedly from the impact. His captors released him just before the strike. Pain seared through his face, radiating from the impact, and he squeezed his eyes shut, thankfully blocking out the second and the third blows to his body. He certainly felt the blows, however. His cheek flamed immediately and he worried for just a second that he’d been scratched as he felt the blood pool up and spill across the ravaged skin. If he had been so unfortunate, the infection paired with the lunar eclipse would perhaps give him a more even footing against these monsters. With a cocky grin, he turned back to the werewolf and spat blood onto his bare, hairy feet.

Greyback laughed.

“All the insipid, mealy-mouthed Malfoys smell the same,” Greyback snarled, “of money, greed, and cowardice. The Dark Lord knew it then - long before setting your task. You proved your worth long ago, Malfoy.” He laughed again, and the wolves at his feet whined in agreement and respected fear.

Two men grabbed him while a third searched him. They confiscated his wand, but that left him far from completely vulnerable. Although with the wards surrounding the clearing preventing Draco from Apparating out, he still had some mobility. There was also Granger’s coin in his pocket, the one she had insisted upon during their failed mission to Azkaban. Of course, he hadn’t a clue how to activate the damn thing. Hopefully, if Granger was still alive, she could set hers off and he’d know she was still alive. _Hopefully._ Plus, Draco reasoned, he was a damn fine wizard. He wasn’t about to be bested by a damned _dog_. Even if Greyback managed to keep the upper hand, all he needed was time and a way to distract Greyback just long enough. 

The woods surrounding the clearing were filled with glowing eyes, yellow and red, but there were an unusual number of humans lingering about, including a group of pregnant, cowering women. Granger was nowhere to be seen, and this worried Draco. Greyback stepped toward one of the men, who offered up Draco’s wand. He flinched when Greyback snatched it away, anticipating the cracking sound of the hawthorn, but it never came. The anxiety of the last few hours was beginning to wear him out, and he felt stirrings of unease as they threatened to overcome him. 

Greyback spun back to face him, a wand in each hand, including Draco’s. _“Crucio!”_

The men holding him were unfortunate enough not to release Draco quickly and they were hit by the Unforgiveable, Blinding pain enveloped him as he crumbled to the dirt, convulsing and groaning through gnashing teeth. He at least had the presence of mind not to scream out, to deny Greyback the satisfaction. The pain was intense, but somehow less than anticipated, especially when coming from two wands. When it suddenly ceased, Draco not only felt temporary relief, but also renewed conviction. 

He was going to kill that fucking werewolf.

Greyback was laughing, circling him. “Nobody’s here to protect little Malfoy now,” he sneered. “No mummy or daddy, or that crazy _bitch_ aunt to hold me back. Oh, I’m going to enjoy you, boy.”

Draco reared back on his haunches and roared, “You flea-ridden mongrel! How _dare_ you talk about the Malfoys like that! You aren’t fit to lick my father’s boot heel. No wonder you and your mangy mutts are all huddled here in the middle of fucking Hyde Park! So stupid, you can’t even cover your tracks! Bodies left all over London, like some fucking amateur!” 

Greyback huffed. Although spasms still rang through his muscles from the Unforgiveable, Draco’s tongue was fueled by his rage, unstoppable. Distantly he acknowledged his own stupidity for egging the mad werewolf on, but he knew he had to give the backup team time. “You don’t have the bollocks,” he taunted the werewolf.

Several men nearby chortled at his bravado, but Greyback only growled, the hair on his nape rising in irritation. He flung his own wand down toward Draco, crackling lightening directly hitting him. Draco lurched backward and froze, his body shimmering with electricity. Draco clenched his jaw as he imagined biting through his own tongue, when abruptly the pain ended again. He collapsed forward on both hands, raggedly panting for breath. Blood throbbed through his head, threatening to gush out through every orifice.

It took a moment for him to realize that Greyback had walked away, had turned his back on him as though he were less than an annoyance and hardly a threat. _Thank Merlin._

Greyback had marched over to a motley group of men and women, some standing proudly and others shrunk back. Draco took the opportunity to get a better count: nearly a dozen men stood guard around the edges of the clearing; about seven women, most obviously quite pregnant, huddled together near the fire. There was no way he could accurately estimate the number of wolves. They stalked about the clearing and back into the trees of Hyde Park, sniffing the air, softly growling, waiting for Greyback to give the word, releasing them upon Draco, perhaps. However, it was more likely they were waiting for the eclipse to reach its climax. What would happen then, Draco couldn’t imagine, and unfortunately, he was certain he would soon find out. He had to stall Greyback. But how?

“Why’d you leave the bodies behind? So very sloppy of you.” He lifted himself slowly on one hand and knee, hiding his other hand from view. Within his pocket, Draco pressed the coin, hoping for some indication from his partner. His body thrummed with jolts of electricity and heat as another curse hit him. Draco did not know if it was the curse or his imagination that convinced him the coin was red hot in response. The longer he kept Greyback occupied, the better his chances of survival were, or so he thought. 

Or perhaps he was just a fucking sadist like Bellatrix. 

“Oh, that’s right, it was Sinclair, wasn’t it?” Blood gurgled back into his mouth, choking him until he managed to spit it out. His hands were trembling uncontrollably now, and he smeared the spittle and blood across his face. “Your flunky Sinclair … hunting new recruits for you. What was wrong with them, anyway? Not … pure enough for ….”

“There’s no time for this,” another werewolf growled, inciting agreeable yelps from those around him. Greyback snarled at them all, and their dissent instantly lessened. Greyback spun about to glare at Draco on the ground. Draco remarkably kept Greyback’s gaze. Greyback was the pack leader. He was the one he needed to distract, not the others. If Greyback decided to unleash them, Draco was as good as dog meat. However, if he could just keep Greyback occupied a bit longer …

Greyback shook his head in irritation and snapped at the nearest minion, who whined in supplication. His attention returned to Draco. His blue eyes gleamed with wicked excitement, his gnarled hands sporadically clenching and unclenching. Whatever he expected to accomplish during this eclipse had him on edge, yet somehow he was confident enough to spar with Draco.

“Weaklings should never be so fortunate,” the pack leader said, his voice rough. Greyback squatted down some metres away from Draco, too far for him to lunge in a final act of insanity, but close enough that the werewolf’s voice purred over him, eliciting a chill down his shuddering spine. “He was one of the first. A mistake, but not a costly one.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t good enough,” Greyback answered. “All of my kin must be strong enough to withstand the change. Sinclair couldn’t manage even that, and his pups were weaker still. Unworthy. However, nature always removes the weak from the strong. Weaklings, like you, Little Malfoy, never last very long in this world.” 

Greyback twitched, catching a scent on the air undetectable to Draco. _Merlin, don’t let them barge in here like bumbling oafs._ It must have not been the Aurors because Greyback silently motioned for two sets of werewolves who had transformed back into men to gather up the women before he continued his story. 

“We are superior to you, in every way. Your time is at an end. After tonight, the werewolf population will surge and once we are amassed, will overtake the Muggles and weaklings like yourself.” He snorted in derision, rising to his feet, his face upturned toward the darkening moon. The shadow of the earth had nearly blotted it out completely by now, bathing the moon a coppery blood red, and for the first time Draco began to despair. 

“They never stood a chance. That old fool Dumbledore protected them, rallied the half-breeds and Mudbloods together to unite against us, even beyond the veil. But without him, or that lunatic Voldemort-” again Draco could hear the hissing at the once taboo name being uttered. “—there is no one here strong enough to stop us from our destiny, our birthright!”

Draco forced a weak laugh, instantly garnering Greyback’s fierce attention. “You’ve gone ‘round the twist if you honestly think this mangy group of half-breeds could possibly take over London.”

“No, little Malfoy,” Greyback murmured, focusing his chilling blue, red-rimmed eyes upon Draco. His voice purred across Draco, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. “My army is stronger than ever. Werewolves are undeniably powerful, yet too many bastards - your father, especially - have hunted us down so that our numbers have dwindled. The weaker ones cower for protection from wizards, their tails tucked between their legs, no better than mutts. Breeding, that’s what it boils down to. Good stock. Choosing wizards with a special talent for transformation makes them that much stronger as wolves, but tonight …” He looked up at the darkening moon. 

“The occultation will enhance our powers tenfold, and when I unleash my pack upon London, every last person bitten tonight will awake to a new, stronger life of blood and power. All Lycanthropes will rise up and will run rampant through the streets, devouring everyone who stands in the way, until at last my army is strong enough to forever take down your kind.

“Oh, I see what you’re thinking, little Malfoy,” he continued, a gleam of excitement evident in his wicked blue eyes. “It doesn’t matter who gets infected - Muggle, wizard, makes no difference. The weaker ones will die from the infection, while the strong ones will feel the pull from their Sire and will come to me, humble and ready to fight. Animagis are the key. Their magical strength exceeds that of most wizards. With my gift, their talents will be harnessed to that of a wolf, able to transform without the full moon, passing on their abilities. Much like a virus, my offspring will spread, and no one can stop us!” 

To emphasize his point, Greyback hauled Draco up so high his toes grazed the ground below. Greyback roared in his face. The smell was ghastly and bits of meat clung to the crevices of his teeth. A wave of nausea overcame Draco and blinded him to the first swing. Greyback’s right fist swung and collided directly with his jaw, just in front of his ear, and spun his head so harshly a resounding crack could be heard. 

Draco was in so much pain that the pummeling seemingly had no effect. Disgusted, Greyback flung him across the clearing, nearly into the blazing fire. Draco neither noticed nor cared. At that precise moment, he wished he would either black out or simply die, he was in so much pain. But he knew he wasn’t about to get off so easily. Wearily, he lifted his head and his eyes briefly met those of one of the cowering women. There was something rather familiar about her, he realized, as he tried to assess his damage. Then he recognized her. 

_Holy fuck._

His eyes quickly jumped to the other women, eagerly exploring their faces. He couldn’t be completely sure, but he felt certain about the first woman, and he was willing to bet the others too were all listed as missing persons, cases he’d been neglecting for some weeks now. The women cringed back further into the shadows as he heard approaching footsteps. Draco didn’t even have the strength to roll over and face his death.

Once again, he was hit with a Cruciatus curse, this time for much longer, to the point that Draco wished he would die already. When at last the spell was broken, Draco continued to thrash about for some time, no longer able to produce any saliva to rinse out the blood he tasted. His hearing was muffled by rushing blood, but he could see that the wolves from the woods had finally stepped into the clearing, likely smelling his cooked flesh, eager to devour him where he lay dying.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf keened, catching the attention of those surrounding Draco. Taking the opportunity afforded him, he thrust out his quaking left hand and brokenly muttered, “ _Accio_ wand!” 

From Greyback’s clutches, Draco’s wand flew directly back to its owner. Without thinking, Draco began casting spells all around, binding some and petrifying others, all while attempting to regain his feet. It was useless to stand. Casting a Protection Charm at the last second, Draco drug his limp body around the fire, hoping for some semblance of cover. The pregnant women squealed in fright and moved back into the protection of the woods, while the men transformed before his very eyes into wolf-like creatures, readying to pounce once more. Magic zoomed all around, sometimes hitting rather close to where he was sprawled. Most of his strength had been used up; it was only a matter of pride now. He glanced up to see that the moon was completely crimson. 

The occultation had begun.

From out of nowhere, a black cloud rolled into the clearing, obscuring the limited moonlight. The blazing bonfire was suddenly snuffed out, leaving them all in utter darkness. Chaos erupted then. Men, women, and animals scurried about, yelling and crying in the confusion the darkness had created. Draco couldn’t see more than a few inches before his face, so he shut his eyes and focused on listening. 

Everything happened so quickly that Draco thought he’d blacked out. Instead of snapping jaws ripping into his flesh, he felt small, strong hands attempting to lift him under his arms but failing. 

“ _Vivifecto_ ,” the person said. 

Draco felt his body rejuvenated somewhat, at least enough that he could hobble to his feet. The hands were back, this time wrapping around his waist, clutching him against a much smaller person. He recognized Granger’s hair the moment it tried to suffocate him, before she said, “Come on, Draco. We’ve got to move!”

As the black cloud dissipated, he blearily saw that the cavalry had finally arrived. _About bloody time_. Granger drug him a few paces away and then they Apparated out of Hyde Park.


	10. Chapter 10

The only thing worse than visiting some poor bastard in hospital was being such a bastard.

Draco lay in his bed, staring out his window at downtown London, and thinking to himself how ungrateful all the damned Muggles were. _If it hadn’t been for me, they’d have all been dog meat._

How long he had been here was irrelevant. He knew that someone, Robards or Proudfoot, would soon come to see him, to dismiss him from the M.L.E. for not following standard protocol. And it was utter bullshit, because had it been precious Potter or his bumbling buddy – had it been Granger, even, instead of him, who had charged in and tried to take down an extensive pack of hybrid werewolves threatening seven _million_ people – they’d have been kissing his arse right about now, offering commendations, and even the Minister of Magic, Shacklebolt himself, would deign to shake the hand of such a marvelous hero. Next time, perhaps he’d let them have the bloody world and let Granger rot in the trouble she always wound up in. Not as if he cared a whit for her, anyway.

Draco frowned as he stared out the window.

Nothing ever changed.

Across the room, the door slowly cracked open, catching Draco’s attention. Here it was, then, his dismissal. He tried to clear his throat, but found it was too dry. He waited for the person beyond the door to be revealed.

Granger’s normally bushy hair had been tamed into a braid, or else he would have instantly recognized her. She stood holding the door open, seemingly hesitant. They stared at each other for a very long time, neither one speaking nor moving, both simply taking each other in. Considering how much Granger had been plaguing his mind for weeks, he surprised himself with his silence. He waited for her to make the first move, like always.

And she did.

“How are you feeling?” Cautiously she shut the door behind her, leaning against it for support, keeping as much distance between them as possible, he noticed. Draco shrugged. Following his one-wizard raid upon Hyde Park and subsequent rescue, he had been in St. Mungo’s, receiving the highest quality care. He had suffered two broken ribs, a fractured jaw, countless contusions, and severe internal bleeding, all of which the specially trained Healers were able to rectify with little effort. In many places, his skin had split open in long cuts and tears, but he had been incredibly fortunate that, with all he had withstood, Draco had not been bitten. The multiple Cruciatus curses, however, were what kept him here this long, the after-effects still measurable. The Healers were nothing if not encouraging about his complete, if eventual, recovery, but Draco had his doubts.

“Never been better,” he said at last with a smirk, which seemed to relax her. Granger smiled back at him, but it didn’t last. She managed a few steps, close enough for her fingers to graze the sheet on his bed that covered his toes, but she stopped herself. Granger asked him when the Healers thought he’d be released from hospital, and he gave her a non-answer. Her hand reached up to check a piece of hair that had worked its way loose, tucking it behind her ear. She was uncomfortable, nervous for some reason, and it interested him greatly, but he tried to hide it.

It occurred to him that perhaps Granger had been sent by Robards, the coward, and suddenly he was angry. “What is it you want?” he barked. She blinked, startled by his tone, and hesitated a moment before she answered.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing, to see when you’d be let go.”

“Isn’t that what you’re here to do, though, to _let me go_ , to relieve me of my M.L.E. duties?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Then I expect I’ll be given my walking papers any day now.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Oh, come off it! You know as well as I do how rogue wizards are treated.”

“But you stopped Greyback.” Draco scoffed, but she continued, “You saved all those missing women -”

“Like it really matters what I -”

“And me.”

Both shut up for a moment, and after a time he said, “No, I didn’t. You saved me.” He was not about to thank her, though. Looking at the way she half-smiled, he thought she expected no less from him. “How did you manage it, anyway?”

Granger pointed a finger to her head and rolled her eyes. Draco’s eyebrow rose in response. “Picked the cage lock.”

“With your astounding intelligence?”

“With a hair pin, actually. Despite all the oddities you like to shove into my hair when you think I’m not paying any attention,” she said with laughter in her voice. “I do happen to sometimes try to tame it with pins. It just so happened, they saved my life.”

“And mine,” he quietly added.

“Yeah,” she said at last. Some of her anxiety seemed to leave her through a sigh, and she perched on the foot of his bed, staring down at the floor. The room shrank around them, suffocating Draco to the point that he wished she would say something or leave, preferably the latter, but the Healers had apparently dampened his terseness and he remained silent. A small, regrettable part of him was happy to see her sitting there, alive. He fought against his curiosity, eventually losing, and asked what had been troubling him since he found her flat in disarray.

“Did they, the wolves,” he brokenly began. Draco sat up in bed and leaned forward slightly, looking down at the small space between them on his bed. “Were they planning … did they …”

Judging by her expressive eyes, she understood what he found difficult to voice. “No,” she replied with a relieved smile. “No, not like the others. I think they thought I was already infected, after Sinclair’s attack, and that I would change during the occultation. I did, however, hear mention of possibly holding out for a ransom.”

“From Potter?”

“Probably, or perhaps just the Ministry,” she said. Granger looked away, scratching at her denim-clad knee. “Possibly from Ron.”

“Not likely,” he laughed, catching her eye when he did. “Like he could afford it!”

He immediately regretted his words as a deep flush bloomed across her face and neck. Granger’s eyebrows rose succinctly as if she expected such crassness from him, and he knew she did. Draco was such as arse. He tried to make it better.

“I’m glad that,” he cleared his throat. “That they didn’t … hurt you, much. That, that they didn’t try to … _breed_ you.”

Granger cut him off. “No, they didn’t try that, but then again, why would they? I’m unworthy – a _Mudblood_ -”

She stopped short as he grabbed her hand and held it tightly in his own. Their eyes met. “Don’t. Don’t say that, Hermione,” he whispered. He stared at her with such intensity, hoping to convey everything he couldn’t find the words to say – his apologies, his fears, and something deeper he had no name for. For a second, he thought she could see it all and she understood. The connection was lost when she pulled away. She rose from his bed and turned to leave.

Draco shut his eyes, angry with himself, with the situation, and how he always seemed to fuck things up royally. She was going to walk out that door and they would have to start over again tomorrow, which, honestly, wasn’t a terrible solution. Ignoring the awkward, the unspoken, was possible and not entirely unfamiliar for either of them, but it wasn’t what he wanted. 

He wanted to move forward, to take the next step, and not linger here where neither of them could admit how they each felt. He was tired of this game with Granger. He knew that beneath her frizzy hair and cool exterior was a passionate, intelligent woman, an equal if not superior creature. He’d seen it, had felt it once, and the experience had changed him, intrigued him, and he needed to have it again in order to feel sated.

Draco needed _her_.

Before he could stop her from leaving, she turned her head slightly and said, “I’ve given my notice, effective tomorrow. I just wanted to see how you were doing.” He stared at her back, completely shocked by her revelation. “And to say goodbye.”

The door closed behind her and Draco was left alone.


End file.
